THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 
P.  Lennox  Tierney 


.x"* 


CORRIE  WHO? 


CORRIE  WHO? 


BY 

MAXIMILIAN  FOSTER 

ILLUSTRATED   BY 
GEORGE    BREHM 


BOSTON 
SMALL,  MAYNARD  AND  COMPANY 

1908 


COPYRIGHT,    1908 

Small,  rtbavnarD  &  Company 

(INCORPORATED) 


Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall 


THE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS,   CAMBRIDGE,   U.  8.  A. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAOE 

I.  THE  CURTAIN  RISES 1 

II.  BROWN,  SMITH  AND  ROBINSON    ....  25 

III.  MRS.    PlNCHIN    AND    MlSS    MARIA      ...  49 

IV.  THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  BLINDS     .  66 
V.  MRS.  PINCHIN'S  HOMECOMING     ....  84 

VI.    MR.    BlGGAMORE    AND    HIS    GARDEN         .       .  97 

VII.  THE  REBUFF  COURTEOUS 110 

VIII.  OIL  ON  TROUBLED  WATERS 126 

IX.  THE  ITEM  IN  THE  PERSONAL  COLUMN  .  150 

X.  YOUNG  LOVE 178 

XI.  ENTER  Miss  FREEDLARK 211 

XII.  THE  POT  OF  DAMSON  JAM 229 

XIII.  THE  SOBBING  ON  THE  STAIRS     ....  254 

XIV.  MRS.  PINCHIN'S  THREAT 285 

XV.  KIDNAPPED  FROM  MRS.  PINCHIN'S  .     .     .  301 

XVI.  MR.  BIGGAMORE  MOPS  HIS  BROW  .     .     .  324 

XVIJ.  THE  RETURN  TO  MRS.  PINCHIN'S  .     .     .  341 

XVIII.  PHIL  AND  HIS  SINGULAR  UNCLE    .     .  356 


S1 
O  * 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAO-E 

XIX.  THE  STOLEN  PAPERS 380 

XX.  MRS.  PINCHIN'S  WINK 401 

XXL  Miss  MARIA  DETERMINES 414 

XXII.  THE  STORY  OF  MARGARET  TOLLAEEE      .  433 

XXIII.  Miss  MARIA  ENDS  HER  TALE  ....  456 

XXIV.  THE  TABLEAU  IN  THE  DRAWING-ROOM   .  473 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


Corrie Frontispiece 

FACING    PAGE 

"  Well,  heard  anything  ? "  murmured  Mr.  Stanton, 

lightly 12 

"  Stop ! "  said  Corrie,  firmly.     «  Stop,  Mrs.  Pinchin ! " 

Mrs.  Pinchin  stopped,  gaping  and  dumbfounded      90 

Then,  before  she  had  dreamed  of  it,  her  face  turned 

itself  up  to  his,  her  eyes  suffused  with  tears  .     .     208 

"  You  see  what  I  'm  driving  at.  The  long  and  short 
of  it  is  that  I  offer  you  a  name  and  home,  my 
girl,  —  something  you  've  never  had  before  "  .  428 


CORRIE   WHO? 


CORRIE  WHO? 


CHAPTER   I 

In  which  the  curtain  rises  slowly  on  one  of  those  singular 
occasions,  peculiar  to  New  York  City's  West  Side  soci 
ety.  —  Mrs.  Pinchin's  Sunday  evening  at  home.  —  Her 
guests  and  her  curious  poor  relation,  Miss  Maria.  —  The 
suave  and  condescending  Mr.  Stanton,  and  his  tolerant 
condescension,  entirely  intolerable  to  the  other  guests.  — 
Exit  Mr.  Stanton,  and  enter  Philip  Geikie.  —  His  in 
terest  in  Miss  Corrie  Robinson,  Mrs.  Pinchin's  paid 
companion.  —  The  face  in  the  doorway  and  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin's  alarm. 

PROMPTLY  at  eight  o'clock  on  a  Sunday  evening 
in  the  spring,  the  drawing-room  at  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin's  in  West  75th  Street  began  to  fill  itself  with 
Mrs.  Pinchin's  guests.  They  came  on  foot,  as  a  rule, 
and  it  was  astonishing  how  many  among  them  ar 
rived  singly  —  unattached  men  and  unattended 
women  who,  for  some  particular  reason,  seemed 
neither  to  know  one  another  well,  or  their  hostess 
either,  for  that  matter.  But  this  was  always  more  or 
less  the  case  with  these  entertainments.  Mrs.  Pinchin 
was  an  assiduous  sociable ;  and,  after  all,  the  manner 
in  which  she  had  drummed  her  party  together,  and 
filled  her  drawing-room  to  the  walls,  reflected  no  little 
credit  on  her  activities,  her  persistence,  and  her  in 
genious  social  enterprise. 
1  1 


CORRIE  WHO? 

"  So  good  of  you  to  come,"  murmured  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin  to  each  newcomer,  and  then  after  a  commonplace 
or  two,  a  hint  about  the  weather,  perhaps,  or  some 
other  observation  equally  reassuring,  the  guest  was 
introduced  profusely  to  all  within  reach ;  and  there, 
turned  adrift  among  the  others  herded  in  the  draw 
ing-room,  was  required  to  expect  no  more  from  the 
hostess.  Usually  this  resulted  in  the  person,  either 
male  or  female,  coming  to  anchor  in  an  attitude  elo 
quently  awkward  and  ill  at  ease,  embarrassed  by 
strangeness,  and  furtively  on  the  lookout  for  some 
familiar  face;  so  that  before  the  music  began  every 
chair  held  its  morose  castaway,  every  corner  its 
anchorite.  Others,  unable  to  find  chairs  or  a  secluded 
nook,  stood  around  the  room  in  postures  of  loneliness 
varied  by  an  occasional  guilty  survey  of  their  neigh 
bors,  or  a  profound  and  prolonged  study  of  the  pic 
tures  on  the  wall.  In  time,  each  picture  held  its 
devotee;  and  then  each  vase  and  bronze,  like  a  mag 
net,  began  to  attract  and  attach  to  itself  some  soli 
tary  with  a  close  and  anxious  regard  of  its  merits. 
"  So  good  of  you  to  come !  "  murmured  Mrs.  Pinchin, 
greeting  a  fresh  arrival;  and  thus  it  continued,  ex 
actly  in  a  fashion  with  all  Mrs.  Pinchin's  evenings  at 
home. 

The  hostess  was  a  large,  heavy-featured  person,  a 
faded  woman  almost  the  Jewess  in  type  —  loose 
jowled,  dark  and  solemn,  with  a  pair  of  eyes  of  the 
most  singular  dullness  peering  between  thick  and 
heavy  lids.  These  and  the  deep  puffs  beneath  them, 
her  flabby  cheeks  and  the  habitual  droop  of  her 

2 


THE   CURTAIN   RISES 

mouth,  gave  to  Mrs.  Pinchin,  in  moments  of  repose, 
an  aspect  of  wistfulness —  a  stolid,  almost  sullen 
gravity.  It  was  the  look,  in  fact,  that  one  sees  in  the 
visages  of  large,  dignified  dogs — the  St.  Bernard,  for 
instance,  or,  notably,  the  mastiff  —  and  in  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin's  face  the  likeness  was  accentuated  by  her  droop 
ing  jaw  and  pouched  and  fallen  cheeks.  To  bear  out 
the  resemblance  further,  when  she  moved  it  was  with 
the  utmost  slowness  and  deliberation,  her  weight 
borne  heavily  and  with  a  great  deal  of  ponderous 
effort.  A  slight  difficulty  in  her  gait  impeded  her,  a 
little  limp  that  was  almost  a  hop ;  and  as  she  passed 
among  her  guests  Mrs.  Pinchin  leaned  on  a  stick 
that  thwacked  the  floor  like  a  blind  man's.  Occa 
sionally,  however,  she  discarded  this  support,  and  in 
moving  about  relied  entirely  on  the  arm  of  her  paid 
companion,  Miss  Corrie  Robinson,  a  young,  plainly 
dressed  girl,  who  sat  in  the  background  until  needed. 
Miss  Maria  Pinchin,  who  was  understood  by  Mrs. 
Pinchin's  acquaintances  to  be  some  sort  of  a  poor 
relation,  sat  there  also,  equally  in  the  background, 
but,  unlike  the  companion,  rarely  required  to  come 
forward.  No  one  recalled  having  ever  seen  a  Mr. 
Pinchin,  but  this  was  overlooked  in  the  inference  that 
Mrs.  Pinchin  had  long  been  a  widow. 

Miss  Maria  resembled  Mrs.  Pinchin  in  no  other 
particular  than  the  name.  She  was  small  and  spare 
in  contrast  to  her  patron's  bigness,  a  wasted  blonde 
with  the  thin,  straw-colored  hair  that,  in  place  of 
turning  gray  with  years,  grows  to  a  lighter  sorrel 
instead;  and  dry  and  harsh,  her  locks  were  thinned 

3 


CORRIE  WHO? 

out  on  the  temples  and  equally  meager  behind  the 
ears.  One  perceived  at  a  glance  her  self-conscious 
and  uneasy  manner  —  an  attribute  so  fluttering  and 
evasive  that  even  to  catch  a  single  gleam  from  her 
pale,  watery  eyes  was  enough  to  invite  in  her  a  per 
fect  convulsion  of  embarrassment.  Thus  effaced  and 
forgotten,  she  sat  there  silently  in  the  background, 
more  alone  than  the  most  lonely  of  Mrs.  Pinchin's 
latest  guests,  never  by  any  chance  speaking  unless 
spoken  to,  and  then  strangling  any  effort  at  further 
conversation  by  her  agitated  replies.  Few  interested 
themselves,  however,  in  Miss  Maria's  presence,  and 
the  few  that  came  often  enough  to  Mrs.  Pinchin's 
drawing-room  to  be  aware  of  the  figure  in  the  back 
ground  knew  only  that  she  wore  Mrs.  Pinchin's 
discarded  gowns,  and  withdrew  soon  after  the  en 
tertainment  was  under  way. 

To  describe  Mrs.  Pinchin's  guests  separately  would 
be  difficult  —  particularly  difficult  were  one  to  con 
sider  their  variety.  Collectively,  they  appeared  to 
be  of  the  class  that  infest  the  drawing-rooms  of 
women  who  have  a  purpose  to  achieve,  one  usually 
social,  but  with  little  knowledge  of  how  to  effect  it. 
If  Mrs.  Pinchin  aimed  to  enter  society,  it  seemed  cer 
tain  she  must  have  knocked  at  many  doors  —  and 
doors  innumerably  varied,  too,  for  the  night's  guests 
were  no  exception  to  the  general  sort  that  attended 
her  entertainments.  In  mass,  they  seemed  to  bulk 
somewhat  on  the  ordinary;  though  singly,  one  des 
cried  three  or  four  individuals  in  whom  there  were 
suggestions  not  entirely  limited  to  the  social  or  the 

4 


THE  CURTAIN  RISES 

deliberate  struggle  to  obtain  it.  For  instance,  there 
leaned  against  the  mantel-piece  in  an  attitude  of  the 
utmost  dejection,  a  Mr.  Alfuente,  a  lean,  rumpled 
person  with  an  oily,  dissatisfied  face.  To  use  an  ex 
pression,  he  was  one  of  the  lions  of  the  evening,  a 
usual  type  of  the  performer,  notable,  poseur,  grubbed 
up  by  Mrs.  Pinchin  to  give  her  evenings  a  tone.  In 
fact,  he  was  a  musician  —  or  so  it  was  proclaimed ; 
but  what  his  abilities  were,  or  what  claim  he  had  to 
genius,  few  of  those  present,  beside  Mr.  Alfuente 
himself,  were  in  the  least  way  possessed  of  the  facts. 
Close  beside  him  stood  a  tall,  angular  woman  very 
much  overdressed  in  a  low-cut,  yellow  gown,  a  dress 
draped  with  rivulets  and  cascades  and  waterfalls  of 
lace  backed  up  by  a  whole  nursery  of  artificial  roses, 
and  supplied  with  a  train  swathed  around  her  like  the 
drapery  of  a  Galatea.  Aside  from  this,  she  would 
have  been  noticeable  for  the  extreme  width  of  her 
mouth;  for  her  bony,  staring  face,  and  for  her 
rabbit-like  teeth,  very  much  in  evidence  when  she 
smiled.  This  was  Miss  Mina  Sutro  Freedlark,  a 
lady  who  was  known  from  her  own  account  to  have 
cast  before  the  public  many  pearls  of  Sapphic  verse, 
all  keyed  in  the  most  passionate  strain  imaginable. 
It  was  less  generally  understood,  however,  that  Miss 
Freedlark  also  contributed  to  a  newspaper  a  column 
that  appeared  apart  from  the  recognized  social  in 
telligence  under  the  conciliating  title  of  West  Side 
Society.  Mrs.  Pinchin's  name  stood  regularly  in 
this  budget,  her  entertainments  invariably  described 
as  functions,  and  the  hostess  as  the  "  well-known 

5 


CORRIE  WHO? 

society  leader."  The  two — the  poet-scribbler  and  the 
hostess  —  had  met  at  one  of  the  women's  clubs  which 
Mrs.  Pinchin  occasionally  attended  as  part  of  her 
social  enterprise;  and  the  acquaintance,  thus  begun 
and  continued,  had  signaled  Mrs.  Pinchin's  frequent 
appearances  in  print.  The  advantage,  however,  was 
not  so  one-sided  as  it  may  appear,  for  occasionally, 
at  Mrs.  Pinchin's  invitation,  the  poetess  had  been 
suffered  to  regale  the  guests  with  selections  from  her 
Sapphic  verse,  all  of  which  were  shortly  to  be  pub 
lished,  or,  more  definitely  speaking,  when  a  publisher 
that  would  undertake  it  had  been  decided  on.  Singu 
larly  enough,  it  was  on  this  very  topic  that  Miss 
Freedlark  addressed  herself  so  exuberantly  to  Mr. 
Alfuente,  forestalling  every  effort  at  interruption, 
and,  oblivious  of  his  growing  dejection,  drowning 
him  in  a  flood  of  speech. 

Others  of  the  same  caste  stood  about.  The  sallow- 
faced,  pensive  man  with  leonine  hair  Mrs.  Pinchin 
had  introduced  as  "  Mr.  Luckison,  the  painter."  He, 
too,  wore  the  same  air  of  unprosperous  discontent. 
Moping  in  a  further  corner  was  another,  a  Mr. 
Ailing,  who  worked  in  an  uptown  real-estate  office, 
and  was  known  to  have  written  a  play,  which  a  man 
ager  was  now  looking  at,  and  at  which  other 
managers  previously  had  looked.  In  addition,  there 
were  —  But  why  go  on?  Many  such  persons  had 
passed  through  the  crucible  of  Mrs.  Pinchin's 
drawing-room  —  painters,  poets,  writers,  musicians, 
a  tragic  actor,  and  an  heroic  actress  or  so,  and  once 
even  a  turbaned  Hindu  pundit,  fat  and  discreetly 

6 


smug ;  men  and  women  of  many  varied  degrees  —  all 
imminently  on  the  point  of  doing  something  —  all 
artistic,  perhaps  abnormally  so  —  aad  all,  for  some 
inexplicable  reason,  never  quite  making  a  success  of 
it.  One  and  all,  they  had  been  brought  there  to  Mrs. 
Pinchin's  at  the  first  whisper  of  their  genius;  and 
patiently  tried  out,  either  wearying  or  wearied,  had 
gone  their  way  to  return  to  her  drawing-room  no 
more.  But  what  mattered  it?  —  she  never  showed 
discouragement.  Others  were  called  to  fill  the  vacant 
places ;  others  came  —  all  of  the  same  expectant 
class  —  all  suspected  to  be  eminent  —  all  brought 
to  give  her  evenings  a  tone;  so  that  in  the  round 
of  Mrs.  Pinchin's  drawing-room  entertainments 
one  almost  suspected  the  deliberate  purpose  of  a 
salon. 

Of  the  ordinary  guests  less  may  be  said.  They 
provided  the  crowd,  perhaps,  without  which  Mrs. 
Pinchin  would  have  thought  her  evening  a  failure; 
and  as  a  mass,  they  seemed  to  be  made  up  of  the  type 
of  woman  that  belongs  to  many  clubs;  the  men  of 
the  order  that  belong  to  no  clubs  at  all,  or,  perhaps, 
a  business  club  where  they  ate  luncheon. 

Mrs.  Pinchin  sat  down.  She  drew  the  folds  of 
her  plum-colored  brocade  about  her,  and  leaning 
back  negligently  in  the  arms  of  a  heavy  and  heavily 
carved  chair  of  black  oak,  waved  imperiously  to 
her  paid  companion. 

"  Play !  "  she  commanded  tersely. 

The  young  girl  thus  directed  arose  and  moved 
7 


CORRIE  WHO? 

quietly  across  the  drawing-room.  It  was  a  large 
apartment,  richly  furnished,  though  in  no  particular 
tone  or  convention,  its  fittings  indiscriminately  echo 
ing  at  least  two  or  three  decades  of  decoration.  For 
instance,  one  saw  among  its  flotsam  and  jetsam  the 
black  walnut  relics  of  the  '70's  rubbing  elbows  with 
the  extreme,  latter-day  art  of  upholsterer  and  fur 
nisher  —  very  highly  varnished  pieces  of  mahogany, 
maple,  cherry,  oak,  altogether  too  massive,  on  one 
hand ;  or,  on  the  other,  too  fragile  by  far.  But  rich 
ness  prevailed  dominantly  —  richness  in  the  hang 
ings,  in  the  upholstery  of  the  furniture.  Richness  in 
the  profuse  ornaments  of  porcelain,  enamel  and 
brass.  Richness  in  the  rugs,  the  wallpaper,  the 
tinted  ceiling.  Richness  even  in  the  varnish  of  the 
wainscot.  One's  eye  became  almost  pained  with  its 
lavishness.  Too  much  lavishness.  Too  many  pieces, 
for  example,  of  cloisonne,  of  Sevres,  of  Royal  Worces 
ter.  Too  many  lamps  and  screens  and  fixtures  of 
too  shiny  brass  and  enamel.  Too  much  onyx  on  too 
many  table  tops.  Too  much  satin  upholstering,  far, 
far  too  fat  and  cushiony.  Too  much  of  everything. 
Altogether  too  much! 

Miss  Robinson,  the  paid  companion,  edged  her  way 
across  the  room,  steering  a  difficult  passage  through 
the  channels  between  the  furniture.  In  a  corner  near 
a  window  stood  the  piano,  a  large,  cumbersome  grand 
finished  in  the  natural  rosewood.  It,  too,  cried  opu 
lence —  a  fat-legged  instrument,  obese,  pompous, 
florid,  and  no  more  harmonizing  with  its  companion 
furnishings  than  it  harmonized  with  the  dingy,  lam- 

8 


THE  CURTAIN  RISES 

entable  dowdiness  of  the  young  woman  who  now  sat 
down  to  play  on  it. 

She  was  a  slender,  delicately-featured  girl,  shad 
owy-eyed  and  repressed.  One  might  have  thought 
her  about  nineteen  or  twenty,  though  her  quietness 
and  repose  under  the  trying  circumstances  of  her 
position  would  have  dignified  a  much  older  woman 
and  one  of  a  far  better  place  in  life.  As  was  the  case 
with  Miss  Maria,  few  of  Mrs.  Pinchin's  random 
guests  ever  troubled  themselves  with  her  presence; 
and  in  saying  this,  one  feels  a  suspicion  that  Miss 
Robinson  herself  may  have  contributed  to  it  by  her 
reserve  and  quiet  aloofness.  In  moments  of  her 
deepest  repose,  a  look  of  real  and  intense  wistfulness 
sometimes  crept  into  her  face  —  a  pensive  air  al 
together  unlike  Mrs.  Pinchin's  heavy-eyed,  loose- 
jowled  moodiness;  and  then  Miss  Robinson  seemed 
to  exist  far  away  from  the  drawing-room,  its  lavish 
opulence,  and  its  atmosphere  of  persistent  social  ef 
fort.  Perhaps  the  reason  why  this  was  not  more 
generally  remarked  in  her,  was  that  few  appear  at 
tractive  or  show  off  to  advantage  who  drag  back 
their  hair  from  the  temples  and  wring  it  into  a  stiff, 
ungainly  knot  like  a  housemaid's  done  up  for  the 
morning.  Still,  this  dowdiness  and  lack  of  personal 
adornment,  though  it  were  even  by  design,  could  not 
conceal  the  depth  and  animation  of  her  eyes,  once 
they  awoke.  They  were  a  dark  hazel,  fringed  by 
heavy  lashes,  and  of  that  quietly  reflective  nature 
that  fasten  upon  whomever  they  study,  as  if  weigh 
ing  every  hidden  fault  and  virtue  with  dispassionate 

9 


CORRIE  WHO? 

judgment.  It  was  just  such  a  glance  that  she  turned 
toward  Mrs.  Pinchin  and  her  guests  when  she  sat 
down  to  play,  nothing  contemptuous  in  it,  or  in  the 
slightest  way  superior,  but  a  clear-eyed,  girlish  look, 
calm  and  reflective.  Indeed,  one  might  have  thought 
her  more  detached  and  lonely  in  the  midst  of  Mrs. 
Pinchin's  rococo  drawing-room  than  even  Miss 
Maria,  or  the  most  lonely  of  Mrs.  Pinchin's  guests. 
Superficially,  it  was  known  that  the  girl  had  been 
adopted  very  early  in  life,  and  that  she  had  many 
reasons  to  feel  grateful  to  Mrs.  Pinchin  for  what  she 
had  done  for  her.  One  or  two,  who  had  felt  embold 
ened  enough  to  ask  about  her  parentage,  had  been 
answered  with  an  expressive  shrug  of  Mrs.  Pinchin's 
shoulders  and  an  embarrassing  change  in  the  topic. 
Her  father  and  mother?  Mrs.  Pinchin's  shrug  was, 
indeed,  definite. 

"  Play !  "  said  the  hostess,  imperiously  waving  her 
hand;  and  as  the  girl  turned  over  the  music  sheets, 
the  hangings  parted  and  admitted  another  guest. 

Here,  at  least,  was  one  who  seemed  to  have  long 
survived  the  trial  of  Mrs.  Pinchin's  evenings.  A  few 
who  had  met  him  before  knew  him  incompletely  as 
Mr.  Stanton,  a  tall,  well-formed,  wiry  man  of  an  al 
most  military  bearing,  who  wore  the  unmistakable, 
though  somewhat  careless,  evidences  of  breeding.  He 
still  clung  to  the  past  fashion  of  side  whiskers,  and 
these  and  his  hawklike  face  and  cool,  steady  eyes  gave 
to  him  a  confident,  distinguished  air  that  was  some 
how  lacking  among  the  other  guests,  all  of  whom  Mr. 
Stanton  treated  with  a  patient,  supercilious  toler- 

10 


THE  CURTAIN  RISES 

ance,  entirely  intolerable  to  the  victims.  If  he  pos 
sessed  intimates  or  an  occupation,  the  fact  was  un 
known  to  Mrs.  Pinchin's  visitors,  who  felt  only  an 
impartial  dislike  and  awe  in  his  presence.  Smiling 
slightly,  and  with  a  careless  glance  at  the  young 
woman  seated  before  the  piano,  Mr.  Stanton  walked 
across  the  drawing-room  and  murmured  a  good  even 
ing,  a  greeting  the  hostess  mutely  acknowledged  by 
motioning  to  a  chair  at  her  side. 

"  Play,  I  tell  you ! "  she  commanded  a  little 
sharply,  and  the  companion,  averting  her  eyes, 
struck  into  the  bars  of  the  Melodie  in  F.  At  the 
same  moment  Miss  Maria,  her  gaze  fastened  on  the 
newcomer,  edged  along  the  wall  toward  the  doorway, 
and,  with  a  last  agitated  look  around  her,  slipped 
away  through  the  hangings  for  the  evening. 

There  was  a  perturbed  expression  on  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin's  face,  a  little  troubled  frown  that  knitted  her 
shaggy  brows  more  closely  together  than  before.  It 
was  as  if  she  pondered  something  fretfully,  and  that 
Mr.  Stanton's  coming  had  contributed  to  it.  If  so, 
however,  Mr.  Stanton  affected  to  ignore  her  mood; 
for,  still  smiling,  he  leaned  toward  her  a  moment 
later,  a  quizzical  expression  on  his  face,  though  Mrs. 
Pinchin's  frown  grew  deeper. 

"  Well,  heard  anything?  "  murmured  Mr.  Stan- 
ton,  lightly. 

Mrs.  Pinchin  abruptly  moved.  "  Hush !  "  she  re 
monstrated,  darting  a  quick,  warning  glance,  and  as 
the  smile  widened  on  Mr.  Stanton's  lips,  her  irrita 
tion  grew  with  it.  "  Look  here !  Why  did  you  persist 

11 


CORRIE  WHO? 

in  coming?  "  she  demanded  suddenly,  her  whisper 
harsh  and  reproachful.  "  I  'm  not  going  to  do  this 
for  you  again.  You  know  there 's  nothing  to  be 
gained  by  it,  and  " 

Mr.  Stanton  smiled  a  little  more  broadly,  a  whim 
sical,  well-managed  smile,  mocking  and  careless. 
"  And  everything  to  be  lost,  do  you  mean  ?  "  he  in 
quired  teasingly.  "  Tut !  tut !  don't  be  so  uneasy." 

Mrs.  Pinchin  bit  her  lip,  and  with  her  head 
averted,  affected  to  listen  to  the  music.  But  what 
she  had  in  her  mind  seemed  to  be  of  too  much  impor 
tance  to  leave  unsaid,  and  suddenly  she  shrugged  her 
shoulders.  "  You  mark  my  words,"  she  muttered 
sullenly ;  "  we  '11  live  to  be  sorry  for  this !  There  's 
nothing  but  sheer  idiocy  in  your  persistence! 
There!  "  she  exclaimed  pointedly,  as  above  the  notes 
of  the  piano  the  doorbell  tinkled  sharply.  "  There !  " 
ejaculated  Mrs.  Pinchin,  gnawing  at  her  lips,  and 
bestowing  many  anxious  glances  at  the  doorway. 
"  Go  now !  I  say  it 's  madness." 

"  Oh,  very  well,"  murmured  Mr.  Stanton,  in  a 
placating  tone ;  "  if  you  feel  that  way  about  it." 

Arising,  he  too  glanced  at  the  doorway,  and 
then,  with  a  dry  smile  for  Mrs.  Pinchin,  leisurely 
threaded  his  way  through  the  maze  of  guests  and 
furniture,  as  little  concerned  with  the  presence  of  one 
as  he  was  with  the  other.  Thrusting  aside  the  drap 
ery  in  a  distant  corner,  he  threw  one  last  look  at 
the  piano,  and  then  disappeared  from  view. 

Directly  on  the  heels  of  Mr.  Stanton's  departure 
entered  a  young  man  of,  say,  twenty-five  or  twenty- 

12 


Well,  heard  anything  ?  "  murmured  Mr.  Stan  ton,  lightly. 


THE  CURTAIN  RISES 

six.  There  was  nothing  particularly  remarkable  in 
his  appearance  beyond  a  certain  smartness  of  dress 
and  the  way  in  which  he  smiled.  It  was  one  of 
those  rare  smiles  capable  of  lighting  up  even  the 
homeliest  of  countenances,  and  while  the  young  man 
was  hardly  to  be  called  homely,  on  the  other  hand 
one  could  scarcely  term  him  handsome.  A  full  in 
ventory  of  his  looks  would  include,  besides  the  smile 
and  the  air  of  smartness,  the  successive  items  of 
good  teeth,  an  alert  figure,  strong,  well-shaped 
hands,  brown  hair  and  eyes,  and  a  pair  of  erect  and 
self-reliant  shoulders,  —  a  pretty  good  description, 
one  might  say,  of  any  average,  cleanly,  self- 
respecting  fellow,  tolerably  certain  of  passing  in  a 
crowd.  He  stood  by  the  door  until  the  music  ended, 
his  eye,  too,  fixed  on  the  girl  who  was  playing,  and 
then,  without  any  of  the  visible  embarrassment  that 
marked  so  many  of  Mrs.  Pinchin's  other  guests, 
made  his  way  across  the  room  toward  the  hostess. 

Mrs.  Pinchin  was  prepared  against  his  coming. 
Detaching  her  eyes  from  the  curtains  through  which 
Mr.  Stanton  had  gone,  she  turned  solemnly.  "  So 
good  of  you  to  come,  Mr.  Geikie,"  she  murmured, 
ready  with  the  set  expression;  and  instantly  the 
faintest  of  smiles  sprang  to  Mr.  Geikie's  lips. 

"  So  good  of  you  to  have  me,"  he  retorted 
promptly,  so  readily  that  Mrs.  Pinchin  narrowed 
her  heavy  eyes  at  him,  as  if  she  suspected  Mr.  Geikie 
of  poking  fun  at  her  with  a  set  echo  for  her  ready- 
made,  habitual  greeting.  But  the  young  man's  smile 
—  whimsical,  merry,  almost  quizzical  —  had  in- 

13 


CORRIE  WHO? 

stantly  departed;  and  Mrs.  Pinchin,  being  unable 
to  detect  anything  in  his  manner  less  than  the  defer 
ence  due  her  as  a  hostess,  resumed  her  usual  dull  air 
of  complacency  and  waved  him  to  a  chair  at 
her  side. 

"  Be  seated,"  she  bade  him  in  her  thick,  mannish 
voice;  and  then  she  looked  slowly  around  the  room, 
her  mouth  set  in  its  usual  solemn  droop. 

At  the  piano  the  companion,  with  her  eyes  down 
cast,  intently  turned  the  sheets  of  music.  There 
was  a  faint  color  in  her  face  and  her  brow  was  puck 
ered  in  a  little  frown.  The  majority  of  the  guests, 
their  eyes  shifting  between  her  and  the  hostess, 
waited  expectantly  for  whatever  else  was  on  the 
program;  and  near  the  mantel-piece  Miss  Freedlark 
still  poised  herself.  The  poetess  was  alone,  for  at 
the  beginning  of  the  music,  Mr.  Alfuente  had  seized 
his  opportunity  to  escape.  Now  —  and  naturally 
as  one  of  the  cognoscenti,  perhaps  —  he  had  gravi 
tated  to  the  piano,  and  leaning  on  the  edge  of  it, 
was  slowly  twirling  his  moustache  at  Mrs.  Pinchin's 
companion.  One  would  not  have  said  that  his  velvet 
eyes  stared  openly;  but  the  fact  remains  that  the 
girl  might  have  been  embarrassed  by  such  close  at 
tention  had  she  taken  the  pains  to  look  at  him. 
Why  the  musician  had  selected  so  obscure  a  victim 
for  his  blandishments  remains  untold,  however,  un 
less,  perhaps,  he  had  been  smitten  by  her  pretty  eyes, 
or  was  nettled  by  her  blissful  insensibility  to  his 
presence. 

Mrs.  Pinchin,  looking  at  the  young  man  beside 
14 


THE  CURTAIN  RISES 

her,  found  him  scowling  in  the  direction  of  the  piano. 
But  Mrs.  Pinchin,  following  his  look,  saw  nothing 
except  her  companion  engrossed  in  the  music,  and 
Mr.  Alfuente  edging  a  little  nearer.  A  steady  hum 
of  small  talk  had  risen  in  the  drawing-room;  the 
guests  had  broken  their  solemn  silences  at  last;  and 
reassured  and  complacent,  Mrs.  Pinchin  smiled  about 
her  almost  genially,  her  momentary  air  of  uneasi 
ness  gone,  and  once  more  the  contented,  sufficient 
hostess. 

"  Well,  young  man,"  she  exclaimed,  with  an  almost 
kittenish  playfulness ;  "  it 's  taken  you  a  long  time 
to  find  the  way  to  my  Sunday  nights.  Never  mind  — 
I  '11  forgive  you.  How  're  you  getting  on  ?  " 

Mr.  Geikie  detached  his  eyes  from  the  little  com 
edy  in  the  corner,  and  looked  at  his  hostess  inquir 
ingly.  "  I  beg  your  pardon !  You  mean  the 
houses?  " 

Mrs.  Pinchin  nodded,  smiling  at  him  majestically 
and  with  encouragement.  "  That 's  what !  though 
I  suppose  I  should  n't  talk  business  when  you  Jre 
here  for  a  good  time.  Still,"  she  observed  oracu 
larly,  "  nothing  like  talking  shop  to  a  man  to  keep 
him  interested.  Now,  is  there  ?  " 

Mr.  Geikie,  who,  it  appeared,  was  an  architect, 
assented  good  naturedly.  "  But  look  out,  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin,"  he  warned,  with  a  mock  seriousness ;  "  if  you 
get  me  started  you  know  what  I  '11  say  about  your 
houses.  You  know  what  I  think  about  the  fittings 
you  have  selected." 

Mrs.  Pinchin's  air  of  playfulness  became  even  more 
15 


CORRIE  WHO? 

playful.  "Oh,  you  architects!"  she  laughed  jo 
cosely,  and  tapped  him  on  the  sleeve ;  "  you  'd  like 
to  ruin  us  all  with  your  notions !  "  Here  she  rolled 
up  her  eyes,  and  clucked  tragically.  "  Do  you  want 
to  make  palaces  out  of  laborers'  huts?  Why 
if  I-  -" 

Mrs.  Pinchin  broke  off  abruptly,  and  darted 
another  quick  look  around  her.  For  Mr.  Geikie,  at 
last  catching  Miss  Robinson's  eye,  had  risen  to  smile 
and  bow  to  her  eagerly. 

"  Hey!  you  know  someone  here?  "  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Pinchin,  alertly,  not  seeing  her  companion's  shy 
little  nod  of  recognition.  "Hey!  who  is  it?" 

Once  more  there  was  the  small  air  of  uneasiness 
in  both  her  tone  and  manner,  a  something  that  be 
tokened  almost  anxiety.  It  was  a  fact,  however, 
that  Mrs.  Pinchin  often  showed  her  stiffness  and 
lack  of  poise  in  ways  like  this. 

Mr.  Geikie  resumed  his  seat.  "  I  was  bowing  to 
Miss  Robinson,"  he  answered  quietly. 

Mrs.  Pinchin  sank  back  almost  crossly.  "  Huh ! 
Oh,  you  mean  her? "  she  mumbled  brusquely,  her 
thick  lids  fluttering  as  she  blinked  again  toward  the 
piano.  "  Where  did  you  ever  meet  my  companion, 
heh?  " 

The  question  was  asked  idly,  carelessly  enough, 
though  when  Mrs.  Pinchin  had  asked  it,  she  darted 
a  quick  little  glance  at  him. 

Mr.  Geikie  explained  that  he  had  seen  Miss  Rob 
inson  on  occasions  when  he  had  called  on  business 
and  had  found  Mrs.  Pinchin  out.  How  many  oc- 

16 


THE  CURTAIN  RISES 

casions,  however,  he  did  n't  say.  "  Why,  day  before 
yesterday,  I  talked  with  her  nearly  an  hour.  She  's 
very  pretty,  is  n't  she  ?  " 

Mrs.  Pinchin  nodded,  but  without  enthusiasm. 
Possibly  Mr.  Geikie  had  lowered  himself  in  her  esti 
mation  by  wasting  time  and  attention  over  one  of 
her  servitors.  Had  she  known  how  much  he  had  en 
joyed  himself,  too,  she  would  have  felt  even  less  en 
thusiastic.  Across  the  room  Mr.  Alfuente  still 
twirled  his  moustache,  and  still  threw  languishing 
glances  at  the  oblivious  victim;  and  as  Mrs.  Pinchin 
made  no  further  effort  to  continue  the  conversation, 
the  young  architect  did  his  best  unaided. 

"  You  '11  laugh  when  you  hear  what  we  talked 
about,"  he  volunteered. 

"  Indeed !  "  murmured  Mrs.   Pinchin,  absently. 

"  Yes,  I  'm  sure  you  will,"  he  laughed ;  "  guess 
what  it  was  now." 

"  Oh,  I  'm  sure  I  could  n't,"  she  muttered  unin- 
terestedly. 

Mr.  Geikie  went  on  blithely  even  in  the  face  of 
this  discouragement.  "  Have  n't  you  said  the  only 
way  to  keep  a  man  interested  was  to  talk  shop? 
Can't  you  guess  now  ?  " 

Mrs.  Pinchin,  without  taking  the  trouble  to  an 
swer,  almost  irritably  shook  her  head.  But  if  the 
turn  the  talk  had  taken  bored  her  to  dumbness,  she 
was  presently  to  awake  from  her  ennui,  the  conver 
sation  turning  at  that  point  into  a  subject  which 
seemed  of  singular  concern  to  her. 

Mr.  Geikie  gazed  at  her  whimsically.  "  We  talked 
2  17 


CORRIE  WHO? 

houses  —  what  do  you  think  of  that  ?  Or  rather,  we 
talked  about  a  particular  house  —  all  about  a  single 
little  red  brick  dwelling !  " 

"  All  about  a  house  ? "  echoed  Mrs.  Pinchin. 
"  About  houses !  What  did  that  girl  want  to  know 
about  it?  " 

Mr.  Geikie's  eyes  twinkled  merrily.  "  There,  I 
don't  wonder  you  look  astonished !  Hardly  the  usual 
conversation  one  makes  for  a  young  woman,  is  it? 
But  I  was  n't  altogether  to  blame.  Miss  Robinson 
quizzed  me  about  it  first,  and  it  seems  really  wonder 
ful  what  a  lot  of  study  she  must  have  given  to  her 
pet  hobby.  We  got  down  finally  to  locating  parts 
of  the  city  by  the  types  of  buildings,  and  that 's 
pretty  hard  in  New  York,  too,  the  way  we  keep 
on  building  at  haphazard,  without  any  regard  for 
convention  or  neighboring  types.  Don't  you  agree 
with  me?  " 

"  I  should  n't  wonder,"  mumbled  Mrs.  Pinchin, 
staring  at  him,  the  corners  of  her  mouth  turned 
down. 

"  No  —  to  tell  the  truth,  Miss  Robinson  will  have 
a  hard  time  locating  any  house  in  New  York  merely 
by  description.  All  our  houses  are  alike  only  in 
their  absolute  lack  of  distinction." 

Again  Mrs.  Pinchin  moved  uneasily.  "  To  locate 
a  house?  "  she  repeated,  a  tone  almost  of  wonder  in 
her  voice.  "  What  house  did  she  want  to  locate  ? 
What  kind  of  a  house  was  it?  "  she  demanded,  and 
after  that  the  heavy-lidded  eyes  blinked  as  they  left 
his  face  and  traveled  toward  the  young  woman  at 

18 


THE  CURTAIN  RISES 

the  piano.  Mrs.  Pinchin  seemed  highly  interested 
in  the  kind  of  house  her  companion  sought  to 
locate. 

But  from  Mr.  Geikie's  answer,  it  seemed  unlikely 
that  Miss  Robinson  hunted  any  particular  house; 
rather,  it  was  a  type  of  house.  "  Just  an  ordinary 
brick  dwelling,  Mrs.  Pinchin  —  one  of  your  usual 
old-fashioned  affairs,  you  know,"  he  said  lightly, 
quite  unconscious  of  the  growing  alertness,  her  ris 
ing  interest  and  concern ;  and  Mr.  Geikie  was  al 
ready  about  to  change  the  topic  when  the  comedy  at 
the  piano  reached  its  climax. 

"  Excuse  me  a  moment,"  said  the  young  man,  rising 
hastily. 

Miss  Robinson  had  left  her  seat,  and,  still  ignoring 
Mr.  Alfuente,  was  struggling  with  a  large  lamp  that 
stood  on  the  music  cabinet  at  her  side.  The  musician, 
twirling  his  moustache,  made  no  effort  to  aid  her, 
and  she  was  trying  to  lift  the  lamp  to  the  piano-top 
when  Mr.  Geikie  reached  her.  "  Let  me  help  you, 
won't  you?"  he  asked,  and  then,  with  no  apology 
to  Mr.  Alfuente,  he  took  the  lamp  and  set  it  down 
on  the  piano  in  a  place  where  it  effectually  oblit 
erated  the  velvet-eyed  gentleman,  his  moustaches  and 
his  dreamy,  languishing  smiles. 

Miss  Robinson  looked  at  him  gratefully.  "  Thank 
you  so  much,"  she  said  quietly;  "  that 's  just  where 
I  wished  it."  There  was  no  other  meaning  than 
thanks  for  the  civility  in  her  tone,  nor  did  she  even 
cast  a  glance  at  the  now  retreating  Mr.  Alfuente, 
who,  after  a  sour,  conscious  glare,  had  departed  to 

19 


the  other  side  of  the  room.  But  none  who  had  watched 
the  little  comedy  could  have  had  any  reason  to 
doubt  the  real  cause  of  her  gratefulness,  —  no  one, 
unless  it  were  the  lean  musician,  so  completely  ex 
tinguished  in  his  attentions. 

The  young  man  still  lingered  by  the  piano. 
"  Found  your  house  yet,  Miss  Robinson  ?  "  he  in 
quired  gaily. 

During  his  momentary  absence  from  the  seat  be 
side  Mrs.  Pinchin,  Miss  Freedlark  had  swooped  down 
on  it,  and,  as  a  glance  assured  him  she  needed  no  aid 
in  talking  to  the  hostess,  he  remained  where  he  was. 

"  What ! "  he  exclaimed,  when  she  shook  her  head ; 
"haven't  you  found  it?  Really?  And  after  all 
my  aid  and  encouragement?  " 

Miss  Robinson  shook  her  head  again,  and  smiled 
back  at  him.  "  I  have  about  given  up  all  hope,"  she 
answered  lightly,  slowly  sorting  her  music. 

"  Oh,  never  say  die ! "  chided  the  young  man, 
promptly ;  "  while  there  's  life,  there  's  hope." 

"  That 's  true,"  answered  the  girl,  sagely ;  "  and 
the  longer  one  lives,  the  wider  becomes  the  prospect 
of  hope." 

"  Cynic !  "  he  mocked  airily,  and  then  soberly  com 
posed  his  face.  "  Hope  's  a  mighty  good  thing  any 
way.  It  keeps  one  going  when  there  's  nothing  else 
to  go  on.  Oh,  yes  it  does!  I  often  wonder  how  it 
would  be  to  feel  without  hope." 

"  I  wonder ! "  exclaimed  Miss  Robinson,  her  lips 
parting  a  little.  But  in  the  response  the  young  man 
detected  nothing  but  an  idle  assent. 

20 


THE  CURTAIN  RISES 

"  No,  Miss  Robinson,"  he  rattled  on  lightly ; 
"  you  must  n't  give  up  hope  so  easily.  Let 's  see : 
what  kind  of  a  house  was  it  ?  " 

The  girl  fluttered  the  sheets  of  music  in  her  hand, 
the  shadowy  light  in  her  eyes  grown  deeper  now,  and 
more  thoughtful.  "  A  castle  in  Spain,  I  think,  — 
a  mansion  in  the  skies,  perhaps,"  she  answered,  but 
there  was  a  great  deal  of  effort  in  the  whimsical 
answer. 

"  A  castle  in  Spain  ?  "  he  repeated,  and  then  puck 
ered  his  brows  in  mock  seriousness.  "  Now  see  here, 
Miss  Robinson.  I  've  been  thinking  about  that  house 
of  yours.  It  was  a  double  brick  house  —  was  n't 
that  it  ?  —  and  it  had  white  columns  at  the  door,  a 
fan  light,  a  spindle  railing  out  in  front,  and  green 
blinds  ?  Yes  —  you  see  my  wonderful  memory !  " 
The  girl  smiled  and  nodded.  "  Very  well,  then,"  he 
cut  in  buoyantly,  a  twinkle  in  his  eyes ;  "  I  know 
where  you  can  march  right  up  to  a  house  like  that. 
I  do  now ! "  he  insisted,  when  she  shook  her  head  in 
doubt. 

"  Where?  "  she  asked,  oblivious  of  Mrs.  Pinchin 
who  was  biting  her  lip,  and  vainly  and  irritably  try 
ing  to  catch  her  attention. 

"  Old  Greenwich  Village !  "  he  answered  promptly, 
and  with  conviction ;  "  if  there  's  one  house  down 
there  like  it,  there  are  hundreds."  But  there  the  girl 
broke  into  a  ripple  of  amusement. 

"  Hundreds !  "  she  gibed ;  "  and  I  'm  looking  for 
only  one." 

He  had  to  laugh,  too,  when  he  thought  of  it. 
21 


CORRIE  WHO? 

"  Still,"  he  ventured  hopefully,  "  your  house  might 
be  among  them ;  and  after  the  way  you  've  hunted 
for  two  years,  as  you  tell  me,  it  might  be  worth 
trying.  Are  you  going  on  a  still  hunt  again  to 
morrow? —  and  in  the  morning,  as  usual?"  She 
nodded,  and  he  went  on  with  a  newer,  livelier  twinkle 
in  his  eye.  "  Very  well !  Then  it  might  pay  if  you 
took  a  look  in  at  Hedge  Street.  There  's  a  house 
like  yours  in  that  street,  too." 

The  girl  laughed  again  and  thanked  him. 

"But  mind!"  he  added,  "I  don't  think  you  '11 
really  ever  find  it  unless  you  keep  your  promise  to 
let  me  go  with  you.  You  know  what  you  promised 
the  other  day?  " 

"  Yes,  I  remember,"  she  answered,  with  a  laugh, 
coloring  faintly  again. 

"  Mind  now !  You  '11  have  hard  work  without  me. 
It 's  a  pretty  large  order  to  find  any  house  by  de 
scription,  just  as  I've  been  telling  Mrs.  Pinchin. 
You  see " 

A  low,  startled  exclamation  interrupted  him. 
"  Mrs.  Pmchm!  "  she  repeated  sharply.  "  I  hope 
you  have  n't  told  her  what  we  talked  about?  " 

There  was  in  her  tone  and  expression  something 
so  regretful  and  startled  that  the  young  man  stared 
at  her  in  bewilderment. 

"  Why,  I  did  —  yes.  I  hope  I  have  n't  done  any 
thing  clumsy,  have  I  ?  Why " 

The  girl  turned  her  head  nervously,  and  shot  a 
swift  glance  toward  her  patron.  It  was  a  furtive 
look,  a  glance  as  uneasy  as  that  which  Mrs.  Pinchin 

22 


THE  CURTAIN  RISES 

had  thrown  toward  the  piano  when  Mr.  Geikie  re 
peated  her  companion's  talk  about  a  house  and 
houses.  There  was  wakefulness  and  concern  in  the 
girl's  face.  Beside  the  hostess  Miss  Freedlark  was 
still  chattering  away,  her  mouth  spread  in  the  widest 
of  smiles,  and  emphasizing  her  talk  with  many  elo 
quent  shrugs  of  her  lean,  scraggy  shoulders,  many 
curvings  and  perkings  of  her  weedy,  giraffe-like  neck. 
But  Mrs.  Pinchin,  so  far  from  appearing  to  listen 
to  her,  now  had  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  hangings  of 
the  door  through  which  Mr.  Stanton  had  so  lately 
made  his  exit.  Someone  was  peering  through  the 
parted  curtains,  and,  whoever  the  person  was,  Mrs. 
Pinchin  was  watching  him  with  every  manifestation 
of  alarm. 

"  Listen !  "  warned  the  girl,  swiftly ;  "  please  for 
get  that  I  spoke  to  you  about  the  house.  I  cannot 
tell  you  what  it  means  to  me  to  say  no  more  about 
it."  She  looked  again  at  Mrs.  Pinchin,  her  troubled 
eyes  still  brimming  with  concern.  "  You  may  have 
done  no  harm,  yet " 

She  broke  off  abruptly,  another  startled  exclama 
tion  falling  from  her  lips,  and  then  mute  and  as 
tounded,  she  stared  toward  the  back  of  the  room. 

There  between  the  hangings  appeared  for  a 
moment  the  face  of  Mr.  Stanton.  He  was  gazing 
toward  the  two  at  the  piano,  and  Mrs.  Pinchin,  from 
her  chair,  was  violently  signaling  to  him,  her  heavy 
features  convulsed  into  a  look  of  warning  and  dismay, 
utterly  unaware  of  the  figure  she  was  cutting,  or  of 
the  fact  that  Miss  Freedlark  sat  open-mouthed  and 

23 


CORRIE  WHO? 

dumb,  staring  at  the  pantomime.  But  almost  in 
stantly,  as  the  young  man  at  the  piano  started  to 
look  around,  Mr.  Stanton's  face  withdrew;  and  the 
hostess,  falling  back  into  her  seat,  glared  abruptly 
toward  her  companion. 

"  Play ! "  she  rumbled  in  a  thickened  voice,  her 
nostrils  distended  like  those  of  a  warhorse  answer 
ing  the  alarm.  "  PLAY ! "  cried  Mrs.  Pinchin  in  a 
thundering  voice;  and  the  young  girl,  her  lip  trem 
bling  and  the  color  flooding  into  her  face,  bent  over 
the  piano,  her  fingers  stumbling  among  the  keys. 


CHAPTER   II 

Dealing  with  the  unenviable  position  of  a  paid  companion. 
—  Conic  Who  ?  and  Corrie  What  ?  —  The  case  of  the 
Missing  Dwelling.  —  Mrs.  Pinchin's  -flight  by  night  from 
her  former  home.  —  All  about  tJie  boy  with  the  bread  and 
jam,  and  Brown,  Smith,  and  Robinson.  —  "R.  tottabee, 
his  Book. ' '  —  The  stricken  child,  and  Miss  Mariajs  cu 
rious  emotion.  —  Mrs.  Pinchin's  rage  and  alarm.  —  Fin 
ishing  with  a  slight  mention  of  some  of  the  disadvan 
tages  of  being  adopted. 

T  ATE  that  night  and  long  after  the  last  guest 
•*•— •  had  departed  from  Mrs.  Pinchin's,  Corrie  Rob 
inson  sat  up  in  bed  with  her  hands  pressed  to  her 
throbbing  temples,  and  stared  wakefully  through  the 
dark. 

"  Corrie !  Corrie !  Corrie !  "  shrilled  a  fantastic, 
jeering  voice  drumming  in  her  brain.  "Corrie! 
Corrie !"  —  and  afterwards,  in  an  accusing  trumpet 
blast  —  "  Corrie  "  —  contemptuously  —  "  Corrie 
Who?  " 

Corrie  did  n't  know.  All  her  mind  could  bear 
upon  was  that  she  was  nineteen  now,  and  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin's  paid  companion.  It  seemed  enough.  But 
Corrie  —  why  could  n't  Corrie  know  ?  It  was  be 
cause  she  could  n't  that  Corrie  sat  up  in  bed  in  the 
dark  and  knuckled  her  head  so  distractedly.  Oh,  if 
she  could  only  think!  Between  her  throbbing  tem 
ples  the  voice,  the  mocker,  thumped  away  in  aching 

25 


CORRIE  WHO? 

sledge  strokes,  the  way  it  always  made  her  head  ache 
when  it  came  to  taunt  her,  pleading,  teasing,  every 
thing  by  turns.  Corrie!  Oh,  Corrie!  But,  Corrie 
Who? 

It  was  so  she  had  wrestled  with  it  for  years,  little 
variation  in  her  trouble's  questioning  theme.  At 
twelve,  on  top  of  wondering  who,  Corrie  had  begun 
to  wonder  what  as  well.  Age  brews  wisdom,  and 
at  twelve  Corrie  was  already  old.  No,  she  had  never 
been  young,  she  told  herself  —  never  known  a  time 
when  the  inner  voice  had  not  cried  its  mockery  in 
the  dark.  Times  when  it  screamed  pleadings,  ur 
ging  —  "  Oh,  can't  you  ever  remember?  "  - —  Corrie 
used  to  reach  out  her  arms,  as  if  to  grapple  with  the 
wraithlike  memories  that  teased  her  so,  —  fragments 
as  shadowy  as  the  ghosts  of  half-forgotten  dreams. 
But  she  could  not  draw  them  to  her.  "  Come  back ! 
Oh,  won't  you  please,  please  come  back !  "  Perhaps 
after  all  they  were  really  only  dreams  —  nothing  more 
than  that  —  foggy,  nebulous,  chimeric.  There  were 
fragments  that  lived  hazily  —  memories  of  a  time  and 
of  a  place  and  of  people  all  so  different  from  these  she 
knew  now  —  graphically  different  because  there  were 
no  ugly  looks,  and  harsh  words,  and  equally  bitter 
indifference  in  their  scheme  of  dealing  with  a  little 
child.  Still,  that,  too,  may  have  been  but  a  dream. 

As  obscure,  vague,  indefinite,  was  her  first  memory 
of  Mrs.  Pinchin  —  that,  as  well,  little  better  than 
an  almost  forgotten  fancy ;  yet  more  vivid  when  she 
recalled  that  the  moment  marked  a  finite  end  to  her 
childhood.  She  thought,  or  so  it  seemed,  though,  of 


BROWN,  SMITH  AND  ROBINSON 

course,  she  must  always  have  lived  with  Mrs.  Pinchin 
—  she  thought  she  played  beneath  a  flowery  bush  in 
an  old,  tangled  garden,  and  that  the  leathery  face 
stared  suddenly  down  at  her  —  a  dream,  no  doubt  — 
an  uneasy,  troubling  dream  this  time.  "You,  there!" 
grunted  Mrs.  Pinchin,  and  crooked  her  finger.  Then 
her  thick,  flabby  lips  parted  with  a  gleam  of  teeth. 
"  You,  there!  "  she  croaked.  Afterward  came  a  con 
fused,  bewildering  memory  of  getting  up  and  going 
with  Mrs.  Pinchin  —  to  the  shifting  of  that  first 
time  and  place  to  another  scene  —  to  this  life  she 
had  learned  to  know,  certain  only  of  its  narrow  re 
ality.  There  was  no  dream  about  that  —  about 
this.  But  beyond  it,  forgetfulness,  like  a  fog,  rolled 
in  and  hid  everything  from  view.  When  she  awoke 
she  came  to  herself  only  as  Corrie,  and  nothing  but 
that  —  Corrie,  the  same  scrubby,  stilty-legged  young 
one  who  knew  only  Mrs.  Pinchin's  —  a  wise,  soli 
tary  child  allowed  to  play  with  only  the  servants,  and 
only  when  they  'd  let  her.  No  one  told  her  anything 
of  childhood.  She  knew  she  'd  never  been  a  child  — 
never,  never  known  a  childhood.  No  one  had  ever 
taught  her  anything  of  that  —  told  her  anything 
childlike  —  not  even  that  there  were  toys ;  or  much 
less,  that  they  were  bought  for  children.  And  Mrs. 
Pinchin?  you  '11  inquire.  Oh,  Mrs.  Pinchin  was  busy ! 
Mrs.  Pinchin  must  not  be  bothered!  Little  girls 
should  be  seen  and  not  heard!  Little  girls  must 
not  speak  until  spoken  to  —  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing. 

It  was  Miss  Maria  who  taught  Corrie  to  read, 
27 


CORRIE  WHO? 

since  she  had  never  been  sent  to  school.  There  were 
times  when  Miss  Maria  used  to  peer  intently  at  Cor- 
rie  and  then  furtively  at  Mrs.  Pinchin;  and  some 
times  Miss  Maria  seemed  trying  to  be  kind.  It  was 
she,  for  instance,  who  at  last  unconsciously  opened 
to  Corrie's  view  one  peopled  world  of  childhood,  the 
world  of  dreams ;  —  fairies  and  fairy  godmothers, 
princesses  and  wonderful  princes,  of  pumpkins  that 
turned  into  splendid  coaches,  and  white  mice  trans 
formed  to  champing  steeds,  —  all  of  that  and  all 
the  rest  of  the  images  and  fancies  that  flock  the  magic 
land  of  Make  Believe.  Once  Corrie  knew  how  to 
read,  all  this  greater  world  opened  to  her;  and  she 
read,  as  the  true  reader  reads,  rapaciously  and  with 
out  rhyme  or  reason,  gorging  herself  on  whatever 
books  she  could  find,  and  asking  none  to  guide  her. 
It  was  through  this  —  by  instinct,  intuition,  what 
ever  you  wish  to  call  it  —  that  Corrie  was  led  to  the 
box  of  books  hidden  in  Mrs.  Pinchin's  garret.  That 
was  when  she  was  seven  or  eight.  Almost  all  the 
books  were  in  French,  and  Corrie  knew  no  French. 
But  among  them  was  one  book  she  could  understand 
—  a  book  filled  with  magic  tales  of  palaces  and  caves 
and  fairy  islands  where  lived  genii  and  ogres  and 
djins,  and  more  princes  and  princesses  —  and  por 
ing  through  their  adventures,  the  child  shivered  with 
creepy,  crawly  feelings  up  and  down  her  spine,  or 
shook  with  delicious  pleasure.  They  taught  her, 
too,  to  build  her  own  magic  palaces  of  delight,  —  a 
most  wonderful  work !  And  on  the  fly  leaf  was  writ 
ten  in  a  boy's  scrawling  hand: 


BROWN,  SMITH,  AND  ROBINSON 

"  When  this  you  see, 
Remember  me. 

R.  tollabee  his  Book." 

She  hid  it  away,  its  existence  craftily  concealed 
from  Mrs.  Pinchin.  Greedy  Mrs.  Pinchin!  —  maybe 
she  'd  take  it  for  herself.  Corrie  dared  not  show  it 
even  to  Miss  Maria,  for  Corrie  had  grown  wise. 

Also  in  the  box  was  another  book;  a  fat,  leather- 
bound  volume  fitted  with  a  brass  clasp  and  filled  with 
pictures  of  people  of  a  bygone  day.  One  face  —  the 
first  in  the  album  —  she  decided  must  be  a  portrait 
of  Mrs.  Pinchin's  youth,  though  the  face  was  less 
gross  and  flabby  than  the  face  she  knew  now.  Then 
came  the  picture  of  a  tall,  slender  man  in  black; 
a  solemn,  gentle-faced  man,  who  singularly  enough 
held  a  very  small  child  in  his  arms.  With  a 
child's  profound  interest  in  children,  her  at 
tention  was  fixed  permanently  on  this ;  and  beside  it, 
there  grew  into  her  living  mind  the  face  of  another 
figure  in  the  album,  one  that  appeared  again  and 
again,  the  face  of  a  young,  dark-eyed  woman,  the 
softness  of  whose  clear  eyes  and  quiet  smile  still  shone 
unobscured  from  the  faded,  yellowing  prints.  Who 
was  she?  A  fairy  godmother?  Corrie  thought  so; 
and  this  album  and  the  other  book  were  her  dearest 
possessions,  almost  her  only  possessions,  hidden  away 
there  in  Mrs.  Pinchin's  dusty  garret,  like  treasure 
trove  in  a  cave. 

But  to  go  back.  If  Corrie  were  really  only  Corrie, 
and  Mrs.  Pinchin  merely  Mrs.  Pinchin,  there  was  a 

29 


CORRIE  WHO? 

great  deal  still  to  be  explained.  Why,  for  instance, 
was  Corrie  never  sent  to  school  —  never,  never  al 
lowed  to  play  with  the  other  children?  What  was  it 
that  was  wrong  about  her?  There  was  the  boy  who 
had  tried  to  talk  to  her  through  the  fence,  and  now 
why?  But  wait! 

They  lived  then  in  the  other  house  —  the  house 
with  the  white  columns  at  the  door,  the  green  blinds, 
the  fan  light,  and  so  on  —  not  the  one  in  which  Mrs. 
Pinchin  was  now  settled  so  comfortably,  so  much  af 
ter  her  own  taste.  Curious  Mrs.  Pinchin !  It  seemed 
to  Corrie  that  Mrs.  Pinchin,  too,  must  never  have 
known  a  childhood  —  that  she  'd  always  been  big, 
past  middle-age,  and  dark,  her  face  tanned  like 
leather.  "  Little  girls  must  n't  bother !  "  No,  indeed ! 
For  it  appeared  Mrs.  Pinchin  must  be  extremely  care 
ful  about  her  comfort,  as  she  certainly  was.  She 
lived  perpetually  in  fear  of  something  happening,  it 
seemed  —  nervously  in  dread  of  it.  Mrs.  Pinchin 
called  it  a  stroke,  whatever  that  might  be ;  and  some 
how  the  presence  and  bother  of  little  girls  contributed 
largely  to  her  fears.  Perhaps  that  was  the  reason 
why  Mrs.  Pinchin  must  always  have  everything  first ; 
and  nearly  always,  as  it  turned  out,  all  there  was  of 
it,  particularly  if  it  were  very  good  and  toothsome. 
Greedy  Mrs.  Pinchin!  When  she  was  comfortable 
and  cosy  and  had  everything  she  wished,  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin  grunted  thickly,  smacking  her  lips  and  chuck 
ling  softly  and  grinning  to  herself.  And  when  she 
had  n't  what  she  wished,  one  always  knew  it.  Rows 
and  rows  of  silk  and  satin  gowns  hung  in  her  closets, 

80 


BROWN,  SMITH,  AND  ROBINSON 

and  when  she  had  nothing  else  to  do,  she  'd  go  and 
look  them  over  and  feel  their  fineness  between  her 
fingers  and  stand  back  and  admire  them ;  and  on  her 
tables  were  always  candies  and  cake  and  other  com 
forts,  and  there  were  flowers  and  perfumes,  too,  all 
of  which  Mrs.  Pinchin  liked  so  much.  Only  little 
girls  must  n't  touch,  and  when  little  girls  could  n't 
help  but  touch,  they  almost  always  got  their  knuckles 
rapped.  Afterwards  Mrs.  Pinchin  would  take  a  sniff, 
or  a  nibble,  or  a  bite,  and  purr  contentedly  through 
her  nose. 

Corrie,  even  as  a  child,  realized  the  grim  nature 
of  that  massive,  self-indulgent  woman,  and  she  feared 
her.  There  was  the  cane  —  the  stick  that  thwacked 
the  floor  like  a  blind  man's.  Corrie  had  reason  to 
remember  it.  There  was  its  rubber  ferrule,  and  the 
rubber  ferrule  had  more  purposes  than  one.  There 
was  the  cane's  ivory  handle  shaped  like  a  Greek  tau, 
one  arm  of  the  crossbar  turned  over  into  a  hook, 
which  also  had  its  other  purposes  than  a  handle.  If 
Mrs.  Pinchin  had  a  desire  to  go  softly,  the  ferrule 
muffled  the  thump !  thump !  along  the  hallways ;  and 
there  were  times  —  in  the  dark,  for  instance  —  when 
the  ivory  hook  reached  out  unexpectedly,  and  seized 
like  a  claw ! 

That  time  Corrie  had  talked  through  the  fence  to 
the  boy  the  cane  had  come  hopping  soundlessly 
down  the  walk  and  crooked  itself  on  Corrie's  arm. 
Ooh!  how  she'd  jumped,  scared,  and  only  five!  But 
why  a  snub-nosed  boy  with  blue  eyes  and  brown,  wavy 
hair,  and  armed  only  with  a  slice  of  bread  and  jam, 

31 


CORRIE  WHO? 

should  so  excite  the  emotion  of  Mrs.  Pinchin,  Corrie 
even  now  could  n't  imagine.  Not  even  the  bread  and 
jam  added  anything  to  solve  the  riddle. 

"  Mus'  n't  talk  to  you,"  Corrie  had  mumbled  in 
decisively  to  the  boy;  for  orders  were  orders,  par 
ticularly  when  Mrs.  Pinchin  had  given  them.  But 
the  bread  and  jam  had  been  held  near  enough  to  bite, 
so  Corrie  had  bitten  recklessly.  Ever  afterwards 
jam  possessed  for  her  a  precious  significance  that 
never  seemed  to  fade,  particularly  damson  jam. 
"  Must  n't !  "  warned  Corrie,  her  mouth  full ;  "  't  ain't 
allowed  to  speak  to  boys." 

"  Go  on !  "  gibed  the  boy,  grinning  widely.  "  No 
body  's  looking." 

"  They  are  too !  Things  is  always  watching,"  cor 
rected  Corrie,  who  knew.  For  had  not  Mrs.  Pinchin 
always  warned  'her  that  something  would  catch  her 
if  she  did  n't  watch  out.  Things  was  everywhere,  as 
Mrs.  Pinchin  had  definitely  explained,  and  no  wicked 
child  could  escape  them.  Nor  from  Mrs.  Pinchin,  as 
it  appeared. 

"We've  just  moved  in;  and  say,  I  know  about 
you !  "  declared  the  boy,  importantly ;  "  you  live 
in  Pinchin's,  and  father,  he  says  your  father " 

Corrie  had  n't  learned  what  the  boy's  father  had 
said;  for  just  then  the  ivory  handle  crooked  about 
her  arm,  and  she  was  dragged  backward  with  a  jerk. 

"  Did  n't  I  tell  you?  "  menaced  Mrs.  Pinchin  under 
her  breath.  At  one  glimpse  of  the  warfare  in  her 
face  the  boy  had  taken  to  his  heels  terrified. 
"  Did  n't  I  tell  you?  "  She  hopped  back  up  the  walk, 

32 


BROWN,  SMITH,  AND  ROBINSON 

one  hand  gripping  Corrie  under  the  arm;  and  in 
the  dark,  top-floor  room  where  Corrie  was  always 
locked,  Mrs.  Pinchin  flopped  down  on  a  chair,  one 
fluttering  hand  over  her  heart  and  her  flabby  lips 
twitching  convulsively.  There  she  sat,  perhaps  on 
the  verge  of  one  of  her  promised  strokes,  gagging 
and  panting  and  working  her  face  and  wheezing 
'twixt  her  teeth  in  distress.  But  just  as  Corrie  was 
prepared  to  see  what  a  stroke  was  really  like,  Mrs. 
Pinchin  drew  a  heavy  breath  and  sat  up. 

"  That  was  close  —  very,  very  close !  "  she  whis 
pered  to  herself.  "  I  must  take  care  —  yes,  I  shall 
have  another  unless  I  'm  very,  very  careful !  —  You 
come  here!  " 

Corrie  went  because  the  ivory  handle  had  reached 
out  for  her;  and  Mrs.  Pinchin's  face  drew  close. 

"  Look  me  in  the  eyes  now !  No  stories,  mind  you ! 
Here !  Look  at  me !  What  was  that  boy  saying  to 
you?" 

Coirie's  eyes  tried  hard  to  dodge  the  eyes  so  close 
to  hers.  "  He  said  his  mother  gave  him  the  bread 
and  jam.  He  wanted  to  know  if  mine  does." 

Mrs.  Pinchin  gave  her  a  little  shake.  "  Come  — 
none  of  that!  What  else  did  he  tell  you?  Look  me 
in  the  eyes,  I  say !  " 

Corrie  breathed  between  her  clenched  teeth.  "  He 
did  n't  say  anything  else ;  you  came  and  took  me 
away."  She  put  both  her  hands  against  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin's  breast  and  pushed.  "  Let  me  go !  I  hate  you, 
Mrs.  Pinchin !  "  she  whispered.  "  You  're  not  my 
mother  at  all !  " 

3  33 


COKRIE  WHO? 

Mrs.  Pinchin  smiled,  though  she  did  n't  let  go ; 
and  her  double  rows  of  shiny  teeth  grinned  in  Corrie's 
face.  Presently  she  moved  slightly,  and  gripped 
Corrie  between  her  knees.  "  Listen  —  look  me  in  the 
eyes !  Are  you  looking  me  in  the  eyes  ?  " 

She  detached  one  hooked  hand  from  Corrie's  arm, 
and  with  a  big,  bony  knuckle  knocked  Corrie  softly  on 
the  forehead.  Tap !  tap !  —  like  that.  "  I  want 
you  to  remember  this."  Rap!  "  I  '11  not  stand 
any  nonsense  from  you.  No  snooping  now!"  Rap! 
She  gripped  Corrie  tighter.  "  Now  about  your 
mother"  —Rap!  tap!  —  "and  your  father!"  A 
double  rap!  tap!  like  a  bailiff  banging  on  a  door. 
"  The  less  you  talk  about  them,  the  better  for  you. 
Got  that  in  your  head  ?"  Rap!  tap!  tap!  "Partic 
ularly  your  father ! "  Another  bailiff's  knock. 
"  You  understand?  " 

Corrie  answered  "  yes  'm,"  just  as  she  had  always 
been  taught  to  say  to  Mrs.  Pinchin;  though  she 
did  n't  understand. 

"  I  took  you,"  rapped  Mrs.  Pinchin,  knuckle-wise, 
"  and  gave  you  a  good  home.  You  're  nobody. 
You  're  called  Pinchin  because  I  let  you.  Remember 
that  now,  if  anyone  asks  you."  Rap!  tap!  "  I  gave 
you  a  home  and  a  name  only  because  I  'm  good  and 
kind.  Don't  forget !  " 

"  No,  ma'am,"  sincerely. 

"  One  moment !  You  will  be  allowed  to  live  here 
as  long  as  you  are  good.  But  mind  you  —  no  snoop- 
Ing!  You  're  expected  to  be  grateful,  too.  Now 
stay  in  here  until  I  let  you  out." 

34 


BROWN,  SMITH,  AND  ROBINSON 

No  snooping,  mind  you!  Many  things  testified 
to  Mrs.  Pinchin's  aversion  to  such  an  ungrateful,  ill- 
mannered,  crafty,  deceitful  return  for  all  her  kind 
ness.  No  one  must  snoop  while  Mrs.  Pinchin  was 
around  —  and  very  few  dared,  either.  For  Mrs. 
Pinchin  was  constantly  stealing  up  one  dark  hall  and 
prowling  down  another  and  climbing  the  stairs  on  tip 
toe,  the  thump!  thump!  of  her  cane  muffled,  and 
carrying  her  along  as  silently  and  craftily  as  a  black, 
bulky  shadow  following  at  one's  heels.  No  one  could 
snoop  while  Mrs.  Pinchin  was  about  and  hope  to 
escape  the  consequences,  because  Mrs.  Pinchin  al 
ways  caught  them  at  it.  And  even  if  they  really 
were  n't  snooping  when  she  caught  them,  it  amounted 
to  the  same  thing,  anyway,  since  she  always  accused 
them  furiously.  A  long  line  of  departing  upstairs 
girls,  waitresses,  parlor  maids,  and  even  cooks,  and 
occasionally,  later  on,  a  coachman  or  so,  testified  to 
the  fact  of  her  aversion  for  it;  and  at  the  first  sign 
she  'd  fall  into  a  towering  rage  and  promptly  bundle 
the  offenders  off  about  their  business.  Corrie  was 
often  accused,  just  as  she  was  when  she  talked  to  the 
boy  through  the  fence ;  though  somehow  she  was  n't 
turned  out  of  doors  for  it.  But  when  Mrs.  Pinchin 
detected  anyone  in  the  act  of  snooping,  it  seemed  to 
upset  her  beyond  all  expression ;  and  after  her  rage 
had  burned  out  she  'd  sit  and  shiver  and  roll  her 
eyes  about  and  peek  into  the  dark  corners  behind  the 
doors ;  and  afterwards  Mrs.  Pinchin  had  to  be  stayed 
with  a  cup  of  strong  tea  or  a  sip  of  sherry  or  port. 
Then  she'd  lean  back  and  sup  the  tea  or  sip  the 

85 


CORRIE  WHO?    . 

sherry,  making  a  small,  guzzling  sound  in  her  throat, 
and  smacking  her  lips,  and  tasting  every  drop  en 
joy  ably.  But  it  nearly  always  required  a  day  or  so 
after  anyone  had  snooped  to  bring  Mrs.  Pinchin 
back  to  her  usual  complacency  and  self-satisfaction. 

"  I  '11  teach  you  to  snoop !  Now  stay  in  here  till 
I  let  you  out!" 

Mrs.  Pinchin  was  turning  the  key  in  the  door  when 
Corrie  heard  Miss  Maria  crying  in  agitation  on  the 
stair.  "  Oh !  Oh !  "  cried  Miss  Maria,  breathlessly. 
"  The  house  back  there  —  The  people  that  've  moved 
in " 

Mrs.  Pinchin's  thick  voice  cut  in  sharply.  "  Hold 
your  tongue !  If  I  had  n't  found  that  out  myself 
already,  where  would  we  be  now  ?  " 

There  was  a  low  murmur  of  talk  on  the  landing 
after  that,  and  a  further  sound,  as  if  Miss  Maria's 
emotions  had  overflowed  in  a  little  trickling  whimper 
of  distress.  Then  Mrs.  Pinchin's  voice  raised  itself 
again. 

"  Have  n't  I  told  you  to  stop  gadding  down  there 
all  the  time  ?  Oh,  I  believe  you  '11  be  the  death  of 
me  yet ! " 

Corrie,  crouched  against  the  panel,  had  wondered 
what  relation  gadding  bore  to  snooping.  Also,  where 
was  it  that  Miss  Maria  gadded  to? 

The  child  leaned  back  from  the  door  after  the 
voices  droned  away  on  the  stairs,  and  decided  gravely 
that,  as  soon  as  she  got  out,  she  'd  ask  the  boy  what  it 
was  his  father  knew  about  hers.  Because  she  had  n't 
known  before  she  'd  ever  had  a  father.  Of  course, 

36 


BROWN,  SMITH,  AND  ROBINSON 

Mrs.  Pinchin  had  warned  her  the  less  she  said  about 
fathers  and  mothers  the  better  it  would  be  for  her. 
But  Corrie  did  n't  care.  And  the  boy  —  well,  Cor- 
rie  never  got  the  chance  to  ask  him.  For  during  two 
days  she  was  locked  in  her  room,  and  while  she  sat 
there  she  heard  feet  stamping  on  the  floors  below 
and  the  sound  of  things  thumping  on  the  stairways ; 
and  on  the  night  of  the  second  day,  when  she  was 
brought  down,  not  a  stick  of  furniture  was  left  in 
the  house,  and  the  three  servants  had  been  sent  away. 

They  went  out  into  the  night,  then,  Mrs.  Pinchin 
and  Miss  Maria  and  Corrie,  and  getting  into  a  car 
riage,  drove  endlessly.  Afterwards  the  carriage  was 
dismissed,  Mrs.  Pinchin  shaking  Corrie  awake,  and 
dragging  her  aboard  a  street  car;  and  then  they 
rode  still  further,  Corrie  going  to  sleep  again  and 
falling  up  against  Miss  Maria  every  time  the  car 
bounced.  Later  they  got  out  and  drove  in  another 
carriage,  a  chance  night-hawk  picked  up  at  the  curb ; 
and  when  the  child  awoke  again,  it  was  morning,  and 
she  found  herself  in  the  house  where  Mrs.  Pinchin 
had  now  been  settled  so  long.  There  Corrie's  life 
began  anew. 

Nothing  happened  for  a  long  time.  At  seven  she 
found  the  books,  and  it  was  a  great  episode.  The 
album  she  stowed  secretly  behind  the  lowest  drawer 
of  a  big,  old-fashioned  walnut  bureau;  the  book  of 
fairy  tales  she  shoved  under  a  pile  of  rugs  in  the 
corner.  Whenever  Mrs.  Pinchin  was  out  and  Miss 
Maria  was  n't  watching,  she  used  to  steal  into  the 
garret  and  get  the  books;  and  many  a  night  when 

37 


CORRIE  WHO? 

the  child  should  have  been  asleep,  she  sat  up  study 
ing  the  big  print,  or  poring  over  the  pictures.  Then 
one  day  Mrs.  Pinchin  and  her  maids  descended  sud 
denly  on  the  garret  storeroom,  and  overhauled  it 
from  end  to  end.  That  is,  the  maids  did,  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin  contenting  herself  with  one  discreet  peep,  after 
which  she  retired,  elegantly  dusting  her  finger  tips. 

Corrie  never  saw  her  book  again.  The  album, 
hidden  behind  the  bureau  drawer,  was  saved,  but  the 
other  was  gone  eternally.  For  days  and  days  she 
kept  up  the  desperate  hunt,  and,  emboldened  at  last 
by  woe,  she  knocked  at  Miss  Maria's  door. 

Miss  Maria  was  sitting  by  the  window,  a  child's 
garment  in  her  hands,  and  her  eyes,  for  once,  quietly 
at  rest  and  softened. 

"Well,  Corrie?" 

Corrie  gazed  at  her  fixedly.  "  I  want  my  book," 
she  murmured  pleadingly ;  "  won't  you  please  get  me 
back  my  book?  " 

"What  book,  child?" 

"My  book  that's  gone.     Did  she  take  it?" 

The  she,  of  course,  meant  only  Mrs.  Pinchin. 
Who  else  would  have  robbed  her  of  her  small 
possession? 

But  Miss  Maria  knew  nothing  about  it,  and  she 
showed  clearly  that  she  did  n't.  "  I  have  n't  seen 
your  book,  Corrie.  Child,  why  do  you  look  so 
troubled?" 

Corrie  shook  her  head.  She  felt  too  dispirited  to 
talk  about  it  when  she  found  it  would  be  of  no  use. 
Of  course  Mrs.  Pinchin  had  the  book  —  the  greedy 


BROWN,  SMITH,  AND  ROBINSON 

old  thing !  —  and  would  n't  give  it  up.  Corrie 
dropped  down  on  a  stool  near  Miss  Maria,  and,  with 
her  chin  in  her  hands,  sat  watching  her  at  her  sewing. 

"  What 's  that?  "  she  asked  dully,  pointing  at 
Miss  Maria's  work.  For  awhile  there  was  no  an 
swer;  Miss  Maria,  after  a  quick  look  at  the  child, 
bending  lower  over  the  sewing.  Then,  at  length, 
she  answered. 

"  It 's  for  a  little  girl,"  she  answered  quietly ;  "  a 
poor  little  girl  I  know." 

A  poor  little  girl!  Corrie,  still  mourning  her  lost 
treasure,  wondered  idly  what  kind  of  a  poor  little 
girl  a  poor  little  girl  must  be.  "  She  mus'  n't  have 
any  mother,  now?"  she  suggested  carelessly;  "has 
she?  " 

Miss  Maria  cast  a  startled  look  at  Corrie,  and 
catching  her  eye,  bent  back  to  her  sewing. 

"  Maybe  I  could  play  with  her,"  added  Corrie, 
reflectively ;  "  could  n't  I  ever  play  with  a  little  girl, 
sometime?  " 

Miss  Maria  laid  her  sewing  in  her  lap,  and  sat 
absorbed  and  silent,  thinking  deeply,  and  staring 
straight  before  her. 

"  I  guess  I  'd  like  to  play  with  some  little  girl," 
said  Corrie,  as  if  musing  aloud.  "  Don't  little  girls 
like  to  play  with  me?  " 

A  dry  gulp  almost  like  a  sob  sounded  deep  in 
Miss  Maria's  throat,  and  she  looked  at  Corrie  with 
her  mouth  quivering.  "  Yes,  yes !  They  would  like 
to  play  with  you !  Oh,  Corrie !  Corrie !  —  and 
you  've  never  had  anyone  to  play  with  either !  "  Miss 

39 


CORRIE  WHO? 

Maria  drew  a  hand  across  her  eyes,  and  turning 
away,  picked  up  her  sewing. 

But  that  was  not  the  end  to  it.  A  day  or  two 
later,  just  after  the  street  door  had  closed  on  Mrs. 
Pinchin's  departure,  Corrie  heard  a  quick  step  on 
the  stair.  It  was  Miss  Maria,  hurrying,  and  in  her 
face  was  both  eagerness  and  cunning.  "  Come !  " 
she  whispered  shrilly,  and,  clumsy-handed  in  her 
haste,  helped  Corrie  put  on  her  hat  and  jacket. 
"  Come ! "  she  urged ;  "  we  must  hurry  before  she 
gets  back ! " 

They  rode  in  a  street  car  for  many  blocks,  and 
when  they  alighted,  Miss  Maria,  holding  Corrie  by 
the  hand,  darted  up  one  street  and  down  the  other, 
turning  corners  hurriedly  and  darting  over  the 
crossings  and  going  altogether  like  one  possessed. 
They  came  at  last  to  a  quaint,  ugly  bystreet,  and 
there  in  the  middle  of  the  block  stood  a  plain-faced, 
square,  well-kept  little  brick  house,  with  a  big,  shining 
knocker  on  the  door  and  a  little  garden  in  front  about 
as  large  as  a  tea-tray,  all  filled  with  bachelor's  but 
tons,  marigolds,  geraniums,  mignonette,  heliotrope, 
and  old-fashioned  roses.  Two  ragged  small  boys 
were  hanging  over  the  fence  with  obvious  designs 
on  the  blossoms ;  but  when  Miss  Maria  came  hustling 
up  to  the  gate  they  looked  at  her  face  once  and  went 
scuttling  away  up  the  street. 

Miss  Maria  did  n't  rap  with  the  knocker ;  she  let 
herself  in  with  a  key.  Perhaps  this  was  where 
Miss  Maria  always  went  gadding.  At  any  event, 
she  turned  around  in  the  hallway,  and,  looking  at 

40 


BROWN,  SMITH,  AND  ROBINSON 

Corrie,  made  a  strong  effort  to  control  herself. 
"  There  's  a  little  girl  here  —  I  've  brought  you  to 
play  with  her.  You  can  play  if  you  want  to  —  you 
can  play  —  you  can  play  with  the  little  girl.  I  '11 
let  you !  " 

A  door  opened  on  the  upper  floor,  flooding  the 
hallway  with  light.  Standing  there  was  a  woman  in 
a  white  apron  and  cap  —  some  kind  of  an  attendant, 
Corrie  realized,  thinking  of  it  afterwards.  "  Oh !  " 
said  the  woman  smiling,  "  is  it  you,  Miss " 

"  Will  you  come  down  here,  please,"  cried  Miss 
Maria,  pushing  Corrie  into  the  room  beside  the  hall. 

"  Certainly,  Miss " 

"  I  'm  in  a  great  hurry,"  added  Miss  Maria,  in 
terrupting  her.  She  closed  the  door  on  Corrie,  but 
the  child  could  still  hear  the  voices  in  the  hall.  How 
ever,  Miss  Maria  only  wished  a  cup  of  tea  and  some 
toast,  and  she  would  be  greatly  obliged  to  the  young 
woman  if  she  would  go  downstairs  and  make  it 
herself. 

"  Oh,  why  yes,  indeed,  Miss " 

"  And  I  '11  be  right  down  for  it,"  said  Miss  Maria, 
hastily.  "  Call  out  to  me  when  it 's  ready." 

Then  Miss  Maria  opened  the  door  and  took  Corrie 
up  the  stairs  to  a  room  at  the  front  of  the  house. 

But  Corrie  never  played  with  the  little  girl  sitting 
there  in  that  room.  Nor  could  she  ever  forget  why 
she  could  not  play  with  her.  For  the  child,  moving, 
turned  up  to  them  two  blank  and  expressionless 
eyes  —  eyes  in  which  there  was  no  light  of  reason, 
light  that  is  the.  soul  of  the  living,  knowing  mind. 

41 


CORRIE  WHO? 

Corrie  stared  bewilderedly,  aware  only  in  her  own 
childishness  that  this  was  no  child  like  other  children 
she  had  seen.  As  she  stood  there  nonplussed,  she  felt 
Miss  Maria's  fingers  tighten  on  hers,  and  again  Miss 
Maria  stared  fixedly  at  Corrie.  "  You  can  play 
with  her  —  I  '11  let  you.  Are  n't  you  going  to  play 
with  the  little  girl  I've  brought  you  to  see?  Now 
you  've  got  someone  to  play  with  —  let  me  see  you 
play  with  her  —  just  once,  Corrie.  Let  me  see  you 
play  like  other  children !  " 

But  though  Corrie  tried,  striving  to  touch  some 
answering  chord  in  that  poor,  dulled,  feeble  little 
mind,  they  had  to  come  away  at  last  defeated.  Cor 
rie  had  found  no  playmate.  "  Oh  Corrie !  Corrie !  " 
murmured  Miss  Maria,  and  wept. 

But  who  was  this  child?  That  was  the  question. 
Dumbly  Miss  Maria  led  Corrie  down  the  stairs 
again,  and  without  waiting  for  her  tea  and  toast, 
which  she  seemed  to  have  forgotten  utterly,  she  let 
herself  and  Corrie  out  at  the  street  door,  and  turned 
on  her  way  homeward. 

"  I  don't  think  that  little  girl  could  know  how  to 
play,"  suggested  Corrie  in  a  troubled  voice.  But 
Miss  Maria  made  no  answer,  and  still  in  silence,  Cor 
rie  trudging  solemnly  at  her  side,  they  returned  to 
Mrs.  Pinchin's. 

It  was  Mrs.  Pinchin  herself  that  met  them  at  the 
door,  the  very  thing  that  Miss  Maria  had  seemed  so 
anxious  to  avoid.  She  glared  first  in  astonishment 
at  Miss  Maria,  who  would  have  slipped  by  her  in  the 
hall,  and  then  she  glared  at  Corrie.  "  Where  have 

42 


BROWN,  SMITH,  AND  ROBINSON 

you  two  been  ?  "  she  demanded  meaningly.  "  Where 
have  you  been  taking  that  child?  " 

The  old,  shifty-eyed,  frightened  look  of  uneasi 
ness  sprang  back  into  Miss  Maria's  face,  though 
she  answered  in  sullen  defiance.  "  I  took  her  where 
I  've  been,"  she  said ;  and  then  with  a  little  shake 
she  faced  Mrs.  Pinchin  truculently.  "  Why  should  n't 
I?  " 

Mrs.  Pinchin  shot  her  an  angry  scowl.     "  Do  you 

mean "  she  began  furiously,  and  then  checked 

herself.  "  Go  to  your  room !  "  she  ordered  Corrie ; 
and  catching  the  gleam  in  Mrs.  Pinchin's  eyes,  Corrie 
wasted  no  time  in  going. 

Miss  Maria  never  took  her  back  to  the  plain-faced 
brick  house,  and  to  the  child  sitting  in  the  upper 
room  staring  at  the  light.  Days  afterward,  when 
Corrie  spoke  of  it,  Miss  Maria  silenced  her  with  a 
fierce  hush! 

But  this  strange  episode  meant  nothing  strange  to 
a  child  whose  life  had  been  made  up  of  just  such 
queer  occurrences.  It  lived  in  her  memory  only  be 
cause  it  was  linked  with  another  more  important 
happening. 

"  Mrs.  Pinchin,"  said  Corrie,  becoming  bold, 
"  what  did  you  do  with  my  book  ?  I  want  it !  " 

"  You  want  —  you  want  what  ?  "  This  with  a  ris 
ing  inflection,  a  note  of  astonishment,  perhaps  de 
rision,  that  Corrie  should  want  anything,  and,  much 
less,  should  audaciously  demand  it.  "  What  book  ? 
and  what  do  you  mean  by  coming  in  here  without 
knocking?  " 

43 


CORRIE  WHO? 

"  I  want  my  book,"  repeated  Corrie,  obstinately, 
"  I  want  my  Tollabee  book!  " 

"  What!  "  There  was  no  longer  any  derision  in 
Mrs.  Pinchin's  voice.  It  still  betrayed  astonish 
ment,  no  doubt,  yet  with  that  was  a  more  potent 
emotion.  The  leathery  hue  crept  out  of  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin's  face,  and  a  pasty,  unwholesome  pallor  crept 
into  it.  "  What!  "  she  whispered. 

"  My  Tollabee  book,"  insisted  Corrie.  "  'T  ain't 
yours,  Mrs.  Pinchin,  it 's  mine !  " 

The  paroxysm  that  swept  over  Mrs.  Pinchin's 
face  again  flew  the  signals  of  an  impending  stroke. 
But  again  Mrs.  Pinchin  recovered  herself.  "  You 
say  that  again !  "  she  commanded  in  a  thrilling  whis 
per,  and  with  a  spiderlike  dart  reached  out  and 
clutched  Corrie  with  her  stick.  Just  then  Miss  Maria 
appeared  at  the  door,  and,  seeing  what  was  going  on, 
tried  to  retreat  unnoticed.  But  Mrs.  Pinchin  saw 
her,  and  flew  up  in  a  passion.  "  You  numskull !  " 
she  cried,  beneath  her  breath.  "  You  see  what 
you  've  —  Oh,  clear  out  of  here !  I  shall  lose  my 
temper  next." 

There  were  times  when  Corrie  wished  she  would, 
and  that  she  might  never  find  it  again.  But  to  her 
astonishment,  when  she  looked  back  from  the  door, 
Mrs.  Pinchin's  face  was  quite  composed,  though  her 
eyes  still  glittered  a  little. 

She  looked  at  Corrie,  and  slowly  shook  her  head, 
her  manner  sadly  reproachful.  "  Little  girls  mus'  n't 
come  in  without  knocking,"  she  said,  clucking  her 
tongue.  "  How  many  times  must  I  tell  you  that  ?  " 

44 


BROWN,  SMITH,  AND  ROBINSON 

Corrie  hung  her  head  without  answering;  end 
lessly,  she  thought. 

"  I  shall  be  real  vexed  if  you  do  it  again,"  remon 
strated  Mrs.  Pinchin ;  "  that 's  why  I  nearly  got 
angry  Just  now«  Have  n't  you  been  told  you  mus'  n't 
bother?  " 

"  Yes  'm,"  answered  Corrie,  truthfully. 

"  And "  Mrs.  Pinchin  was  about  to  say  some 
thing  more  in  the  same  key  when  she  looked  down 
and  saw  Corrie  was  standing  on  the  hem  of  her  lace- 
trimmed  wrapper.  "  Here !  take  your  dirty  shoes  off 
my  skirt !  "  She  gave  Corrie  another  little  shake  and 
shoved  her  away,  delicately  shaking  out  her  ruffles  to 
assure  herself  no  damage  had  been  done.  Afterwards 
she  leaned  over  to  the  table  and  helped  herself  to  a 
sweet  —  a  stuffed  prune  it  chanced  to  be,  taken  from  a 
wooden  box  lined  with  tinfoil.  These  were  an  especial 
dainty  of  Mrs.  Pinchin's,  and  somehow  in  the  child's 
mind  they  were  always  associated  with  her  in  their 
dark,  oily  fatness.  "  I  'm  afraid,"  Mrs.  Pinchin 
mumbled,  her  mouth  full,  "  that  you  're  inclined  to 
be  a  very  naughty  little  girl ; "  slowly  eating 
while  she  spoke,  smacking  her  lips  and  breathing 
thickly.  "  You  've  been  told  you  mus'  n't  bother 
me;  but  you  come  bouncing  in  here  and  waking 
me  out  of  my  nap,  and  all  because  of  what?  A 
book !  "  said  Mrs.  Pinchin,  disgustedly,  "nothing  but 
a  book ! " 

She  helped  herself  to  another  fat,  oily  prune,  and 
regarded  it  enjoyingly  before  biting  into  it. 
"Umh!"  said  Mrs.  Pinchin,  filling  her  mouth; 

45 


CORRIE  WHO? 

"what  should  I  know  about  it?  —  about  your  old 
book  now  ?  "  she  added  carelessly,  licking  her  finger 
tips.  Then  her  eyes  whipped  around  suddenly. 
"  What  was  the  name  you  said  now  ?  Connolly  ? 
Jellaby?  Who  gave  you  that  book?  Answer  me!" 

"  I  found  it  in  a  box  up  in  the  garret.  No  one 
wanted  it  but  you,  Mrs.  Pinchin.  Did  you  take 
it?  " 

"  In  a  box?  In  the  garret?  Oh!  "  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Pinchin,  swiftly.  "  Is  that  all?  Then  you  get  out 
of  here !  Do  you  hear  me  ?  Hunh !  and  don't  you  let 
me  catch  you  snooping  around  my  garret  again. 
Clear  out,  I  say !  " 

So  the  book  was  gone !  gone  for  good !  never  found 
again !  Far  back  in  the  girl's  mind  lived  the  memory 
of  it,  and  all  the  other  memories  —  the  vague  and  the 
vivid  —  and  still  they  came  to  haunt  her ;  Corrie 
growing  through  girlhood,  —  twelve,  fourteen,  older 
all  the  time,  far  older  than  her  years  intended  her 
to  be. 

At  sixteen  she  went  to  Mrs.  Pinchin,  quietly,  ap 
pealing,  yet  not  to  be  put  off  any  longer.  "  Mrs. 
Pinchin,  I  want  to  know  who  I  am.  Who  am 
I,  Mrs.  Pinchin?  Won't  you  even  tell  me  my 
name?  " 

Mrs.  Pinchin's  heavy  features  screwed  themselves 
into  a  sudden,  menacing  frown.  "  What 's  that  ? 
What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

Corrie  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  woman's  and  held  them 
there.  "  I  want  to  know  who  I  am,  I  say.  What  is 
my  name,  Mrs.  Pinchin  ?  " 

46 


BROWN,  SMITH,  AND  ROBINSON 

Mrs.  Pinchin's  head  rolled  from  side  to  side,  and 
her  thick,  drooping  lips  drooped  a  little  further  at 
the  corners.  "Your  name,  hey?  What  have  I  got 
to  do  with  your  name?  Ain't  Pinchin  good 
enough?  Or  would  you  rather  have  Brown,  Smith, 

or "     She  checked  herself,  and  leered  through 

her  thick,  leathery  eyelids.  "Your  name,  hey? 
Well,  I  '11  tell  you  what  it  is.  I  guess  I  can  tell 
you  that  much.  It 's  Robinson !  yes,  that 's  it. 
They  said  it  was  that,  anyway,  and  I  don't  know 
what  became  of  them.  How 's  Robinson  suit  you 
now?  —  any  better  than  Pinchin?  Robinson! 
Robinson ! " 

She  chuckled  noisily,  and  Corrie  stood  and  watched 
her. 

"  You  adopted  me  from  them  ?  Why  did  you 
adopt  me,  Mrs.  Pinchin  ?  " 

Another  startled  look,  another  gleam  from  be 
neath  the  dark,  leathery  lids.  "  Why  ?  —  well,  why 
should  n't  I?  I  did  because  I  wanted  to,  that 's  why ! 
Miss  Robinson !  Now  go  out  of  my  room.  I  have  n't 
any  time  to  waste  on  you.  I  'm  going  to  take  my 
nap!" 

Miss  Robinson !  Corrie  did  n't  believe  her.  But 
Robinson  —  Brown  or  Smith  or  Robinson  would  do 
in  the  meanwhile.  Anything  but  Pinchin!  So  Rob 
inson  she  called  herself  and  was  called,  the  same 
kind  of  christening  that  would  have  been  given  to  a 
waif  picked  up  in  a  hedgerow. 

In  the  girl's  mind  there  lived  the  feeling  that  when 
she  found  the  snub-nosed  boy  with  the  bread  and 

47 


CORRIE  WHO? 

jam,  the  boy  with  the  brown,  wavy  hair,  she  would 
find  a  real  name  —  not  Robinson,  but  the  name  that 
was  really  hers. 

What  was  it,  anyway,  he  had  tried  to  tell  her 
when  Mrs.  Pinchin  dragged  her  away? 


48 


CHAPTER   III 

Showing  how  even  so  well-regulated  a  character  as  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin's  may  seek  variety  by  omitting  to  breakfast  in  bed.  — 
Her  esteem  of  food.  —  Miss  Maria's  rebellion  and  the  re 
sult.  —  Mrs.  Pinchin's  private  den.  —  Miss  Maria  turns 
on  the  waterworks,  her  usual  relaxation.  —  Mrs.  Pinchin's 
unusual  private  equipage,  her  two  antiquated  roans  and 
mulatto  coachman.  —  The  coachman's  justified  astonish 
ment  when  his  mistress  abandons  her  brougham  on  the  out 
skirts  of  Greenwich  Village. 

the  morning  after  Mrs.  Pinchin's  character- 
istic  Sunday  entertainment  the  bell  in  her  bed 
room  rang  suddenly,  imperatively,  —  not  to  say  vio 
lently.  As  it  was  still  early,  unusually  early  for  Mrs. 
Pinchin  to  stir  herself,  the  summons  was  wholly  un 
expected  ;  a  sufficient  reason  why  no  one  was  near  to 
answer  it  on  the  jump,  and,  in  turn  with  that,  a  most 
sufficient  reason  why  its  clamor  grew  so  vigorously. 

Ordinarily  Mrs.  Pinchin  breakfasted  in  bed,  seldom 
awakening  before  ten  o'clock,  and  very  infrequently 
arising  before  noon.  Promptly  at  ten  a  maid  was  ex 
pected  at  the  door  with  her  tray,  and  on  this  tray 
Mrs.  Pinchin  found  fruit,  a  cereal,  coffee  and  cream, 
eggs,  a  chop  or  a  bit  of  fish,  and,  to  finish  off  with,  a 
generous  supply  of  either  waffles  or  pancakes.  Slip 
ping  her  arms  into  a  dressing  sack,  Mrs.  Pinchin  sat 
up  in  bed  with  the  tray  on  her  knees,  and  in  acknowl 
edged  comfort  and  with  many  audible  evidences  of 
4  49 


CORRIE  WHO? 

enjoyment,  proceeded  to  make  away  with  all  before 
her.  Afterwards  she  dawdled  over  the  morning  news 
papers,  her  first  interest  in  the  social  budget;  and 
then  when  she  had  learned  what  the  gay  world  had 
done  and  was  doing,  Mrs.  Pinchin  leisurely  arose. 

But  to-day  Mrs.  Pinchin  had  other  plans  in  view, 
a  break  in  her  routine,  as  the  growing  clamor  of  her 
bell  assured.  Corrie,  coming  down  the  stairs,  was  the 
first  to  hear  it,  and,  with  a  little  wrinkling  of  her 
brow,  she  stopped  and  rapped  at  the  door. 

Bolstered  among  the  pillows,  Mrs.  Pinchin  sat  up 
in  bed,  obviously  alive  to  a  very  righteous  indigna 
tion.  "  Is  anyone  awake  in  this  house  ?  "  she  de 
manded  tartly,  "  or  are  all  you  lazy  creatures  still 
snoring?  Pity  I  can't  ever  get  anyone  to  answer  me 
when  I  ring !  " 

It  was  a  wide,  high,  half-canopy  bed  in  which  Mrs. 
Pinchin  lay,  a  massive  piece  of  furniture  veneered  with 
varnished  bird's-eye  maple  of  a  canary-yellow  hue. 
Yet,  in  its  massiveness,  its  occupant  amply  filled  it. 
In  the  dim  light  of  the  closed,  shaded  room,  her  face 
disclosed  itself  more  leathery  and  dark  than  ever,  loose 
and  flabby,  the  pouches  beneath  her  eyes  swollen  by 
sleep  to  a  still  greater  puffiness.  Disturbed  and 
fretful,  she  drew  her  nightdress  about  her  neck ;  and 
it  was  a  delicate,  dainty  nightdress  Mrs.  Pinchin 
wore,  rich  like  all  her  other  possessions  and  trimmed 
elaborately  with  ruffs  and  tuckers  and  shirring,  its 
lace  of  a  filmy  texture.  Against  the  deep,  rusted, 
ivory  tone  of  Mrs.  Pinchin's  throat  its  delicate  dain 
tiness  contrasted  strongly,  perhaps  curiously. 

50 


MRS.  PINCHIN  AND  MISS  MARIA 

Mrs.  Pinchin  dragged  the  bedclothes  about  her  and 
shuddered  regretfully.  "  Pity  when  I  've  got  to  get 
up,  I  say,  that  no  one  can  be  ready  to  wait  on  me." 
She  shuddered  again,  though  one  would  not  have 
thought  the  room  cold,  for  all  the  windows  were 
tightly  closed  and  their  shades  and  blinds  closely 
drawn.  Perhaps,  since  the  air  was  so  warm,  even 
stuffy,  —  perhaps  Mrs.  Pinchin  shuddered  from 
another  cause,  say  the  sheer  discomfort  of  rising  at 
such  an  outlandish  hour.  Reaching  out  her  hands, 
she  clawed  up  the  spread  a  little  higher  about  her 
chin,  snuggling  down  into  the  great  square  of 
thickly-quilted,  salmon-pink  silk,  and  rolling  her 
eyes  around  her  moodily.  "  Have  my  breakfast  on," 
she  mumbled ;  "  I  'm  coming  down." 

Corrie  had  her  hand  on  the  doorknob  when  Mrs. 
Pinchin  called  her  back  with  a  jerk  of  her  head 
toward  the  window  furthest  from  the  bed.  "  Pull 
up  that  shade  there !  No  —  not  like  that !  "  she  cried 
sulkily,  "  do  you  want  to  blind  me  ?  " 

The  girl  patiently  lowered  it  to  the  desired  height, 
and  Mrs.  Pinchin  having  no  further  orders,  she 
withdrew. 

Mrs.  Pinchin's  bedroom,  as  revealed  in  the  light, 
was  significant  of  Mrs.  Pinchin.  It  was  a  large, 
high-walled  chamber,  the  best  in  the  house  naturally, 
and  filled  almost  to  overflowing  with  those  frequent 
evidences  of  her  love  of  material  comfort  and  luxury. 
The  furniture,  all  of  the  same  bird's-eye  maple  as 
the  bed,  was  equally  massive  and  rich,  and  this  rich 
ness  was  reflected  elsewhere  in  the  thick,  silk  hangings 

51 


CORRIE  WHO? 

at  the  windows,  the  deep  pile  of  Wilton  on  the  floor, 
the  tall  mirrors,  the  profusion  of  chased  silver  on  the 
bureau,  the  array  of  ornaments  on  mantel,  shelf,  and 
bracket ;  and,  to  top  it  all  off,  in  the  extraordinary, 
indeed  amazing,  variety  of  expensive  cosmetics,  balms, 
lotions,  hair  tonics,  powders,  and  perfumes  arranged 
on  a  shelf  above  her  dressing-table.  In  themselves, 
they  were  a  patent  evidence  of  the  care  Mrs.  Pinchin 
gave  herself,  yet  no  inventory  of  the  room  would  be 
quite  complete  if  one  omitted  the  other  comforts  scat 
tered  around;  such  things,  for  instance,  as  the  rib 
bon-bedecked  basket  of  bonbons  in  easy  reach  of  her 
bed,  the  decanter  of  sherry  on  a  nearby  stand,  and 
the  plate  of  vanilla  wafers  beside  it.  Little  for  either 
the  inner  or  outer  comfort  of  Mrs.  Pinchin  seemed 
omitted. 

Downstairs  in  the  dining  room,  Corrie  found 
breakfast  already  on  the  table.  Miss  Maria  had  not 
yet  appeared,  but  as  Miss  Maria  was  always  prompt, 
Corrie  knew  she  would  be  down  directly.  Beside  the 
pantry  door  stood  the  waitress,  Maggie,  a  new  girl 
with  stubby  teeth  and  wide,  carminous  gums,  and  not 
altogether  tidy  in  her  dress.  Her  manner  toward 
Corrie  and  Miss  Maria  was  on  all  occasions  a  cross 
between  a  sullen  sulkiness  and  pert  indifference;  for 
with  a  servant's  ready  wit  in  such  matters,  she  had 
already  divined  the  inferior  positions  of  the  two,  the 
paid  companion  and  the  poor  relation. 

But  Corrie,  long  accustomed  to  servants'  indiffer 
ence,  ignored  the  girl's  sullen,  almost  truculent  man 
ner.  "  You  '11  have  to  take  off  the  breakfast, 

52 


MRS.  PINCHIN  AND  MISS  MARIA 

Maggie,"  she  directed  quietly ;  "  we  're  not  ready 
yet." 

Naturally  enough,  Mrs.  Pinchin  insisted  on  being 
the  first  to  sit  down  at  her  own  board.  Besides  the 
sense  of  her  own  dignity,  the  sight  of  the  others  half 
through  a  meal,  this  and  the  broken  food,  always  filled 
her  with  irritation  —  why,  it  would  not  be  difficult  to 
say ;  for  the  fact  remains  that  if  Mrs.  Pinchin  were 
not  seated  first  and  helped  first  and  were  not  the  first 
to  taste  whatever  there  was  to  eat,  she  at  once  be 
came  extremely  upset  and  uncomfortable.  Maggie, 
however,  had  come  to  the  house  too  recently  to 
know  the  meals  were  delayed  only  for  Mrs.  Pinchin ; 
and  jerking  up  her  shoulder  and  sticking  a  hand  on 
her  hip,  she  seemed  disposed  to  argue  the  matter 
spiritedly. 

"  Take  it  away,  Maggie,"  repeated  Corrie,  giving 
no  heed  to  the  signals  of  war.  "  Mrs.  Pinchin  is 
coming  down  this  morning,  and  she  won't  like  it  if 
the  breakfast  gets  cold." 

Out  in  the  hall  Corrie  headed  off  Miss  Maria. 
"  We  '11  have  to  wait,  Miss  Maria ;  Mrs.  Pinchin  is 
coming  down." 

"  Is  she  ?  "  answered  the  other,  inertly.  She  looked 
unusually  peaked  and  wan,  more  downcast  and  sub 
dued  than  ever,  her  pale  eyes  reddened  about  the 
rims  and  creased  with  deep  wrinkles  at  their  corners. 
There  were  few  moments  in  which  Miss  Maria  did  not 
look  dowdy  and  unkempt,  and  now  she  looked  hope 
lessly  and  desperately  so.  But  unlike  the  dowdiness 
that  sometimes  showed  itself  in  Corrie,  Miss  Maria's 

53 


CORRIE  WHO? 

lacked  any  single,  redeeming  feature,  —  the  feature, 
for  instance,  of  Corrie's  surprising  eyes,  or  the  lithe- 
ness  of  her  young,  girlish  form,  even  though  the  form 
were  often  hung  in  a  plain,  shapeless  dress. 

Curiously  enough  this  morning  Corrie's  gown 
looked  less  shapeless,  less  plainly  unattractive  than 
her  attire  of  the  night  before.  It  was  perhaps  just 
as  simple,  quite  as  unostentatious  and  unadorned ; 
yet  somehow,  if  one  looked  at  Corrie  once,  one  looked 
again,  and  instantly  there  dawned  the  fact  of  her 
shapeliness,  the  slender  grace  of  her  form,  and  the 
round  fulness  of  her  young,  girlish  throat.  Nor,  as 
one  saw,  was  Corrie's  hair  any  longer  snaked  back 
from  her  brow  and  wrung  into  a  hard  knot  on  her 
neck.  Now  it  was  piled  into  a  coil,  a  soft  mass  of  fine, 
silky  brown,  flashing  in  the  light  with  the  half-hidden, 
unexpected  gleams  of  dulled  metal,  its  sheen  framing 
suitably  the  depth  and  shadowiness  of  her  dark  eyes. 
So  perhaps,  after  all,  there  were  moments  when  Cor 
rie,  at  a  pinch,  could  look  attractive  —  moments  when 
it  seemed  as  if  she  almost  cared  to  reveal  herself  a 
beauty. 

It  was  not  quite  an  hour  later,  but  very  nearly 
that,  when  Mrs.  Pinchin  came  down.  However,  as 
Mrs.  Pinchin's  health  did  not  admit  of  haste  and  the 
overexertion  of  hurry,  Miss  Maria  and  Corrie  were 
prepared  for  the  delay.  Just  before  she  completed 
her  toilet,  she  rang  again,  and  this  time  there  was 
no  delay  in  the  answer  to  the  summons.  "  Have  the 
breakfast  put  on  now,"  she  ordered  Corrie,  as  she 
stood  up  before  the  glass,  carefully  putting  the  last 

54 


MRS.  PINCHIN  AND  MISS  MARIA 

touches  to  her  attire ;  "  have  it  on  when  you  hear  me 
coming  down.  I  won't  be  kept  waiting." 

She  came  stamping  into  the  dining  room  event 
ually,  and  stood  by  her  chair  in  silence  until  Corrie 
had  drawn  it  out  for  her.  Then  Mrs.  Pinchin  hung 
her  stick  over  the  chair  back  and  sat  down  ponder 
ously,  her  eyes  traveling  about  the  breakfast  table 
and  going  from  that  to  the  food  on  the  smaller  serv 
ing  table  near  the  pantry  door.  "  Hand  the  fruit, 
girl,"  she  directed  sulkily  to  Maggie  the  waitress; 
and  Maggie,  still  fretted  and  sullen  at  the  long 
delay,  scuffled  across  the  carpet.  But  Mrs.  Pinchin, 
it  appeared,  was  far  too  intent  on  the  breakfast  to 
heed  a  servant's  airs  —  either  to  heed  that,  or  any 
thing  else  but  her  food. 

She  was  dressed  for  the  morning  in  a  figured, 
black  brocade  skirt  and  a  rose-colored  dressing  sack 
trimmed  with  lace  and  long  streamers  of  narrow  pink 
satin  ribbon.  It  hung  loosely  from  her  ample  bust, 
the  wide  sleeve  revealing  Mrs.  Pinchin's  massive  arm 
as  she  reached  out  to  take  an  orange,  —  a  corded, 
stalwart  arm  strongly  in  contrast  to  the  loose  flabbi- 
ness  of  her  face  and  form.  Her  choice  of  the  orange 
was  slow  and  deliberate,  as  heavily  precise  as  all  her 
actions.  She  took  one,  felt  it  with  a  squeeze  of  her 
muscular  fingers,  regarded  it  closely,  and  put  it  back 
in  the  dish.  Then  she  began  picking  up  first  one 
and  then  another,  rejecting  them  in  turn,  until  she 
found  one  that  met  her  satisfaction.  "  Unh !  "  she 
grunted;  but  just  as  Maggie  was  about  to  pass  the 
fruit  to  Miss  Maria,  Mrs.  Pinchin  glanced  up  side- 

55 


CORRIE  WHO? 

ways  and  snatched  another;  the  movement,  in  this 
instance,  by  no  means  so  deliberate.  Afterwards  she 
cut  the  two  oranges  into  quarters,  and  with  her  eyes 
on  her  plate  and  rolling  from  side  to  side,  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin  ate  with  the  greatest  gusto  imaginable,  her 
big  teeth  dexterously  separating  the  rind  from  the 
pulp,  and  the  smacking  of  her  lips  showing  how  she 
relished  the  taste. 

The  meal  was  disposed  of  in  silence,  what  little 
talk  there  was  limited  to  Corrie  and  Miss  Maria,  and 
then  carried  on  in  an  undertone.  After  the  oranges 
Mrs.  Pinchin  had  her  coffee,  a  hot  roll,  and  a  dish 
of  oatmeal,  and  after  the  oatmeal  came  a  chop  and 
fried  potatoes,  followed  by  a  plate  of  batter  cakes. 
During  the  meal  Mrs.  Pinchin  spoke  only  once,  all 
her  attention  engrossed  in  the  food;  and  when  she 
broke  her  silence,  it  was  only  to  ask  for  another  help 
ing  of  cream.  While  the  oatmeal  dish  was  being  re 
moved  she  did  look  up,  however,  as  if  to  make  some 
observation,  perhaps  about  the  weather,  a  topic 
always  ready  on  her  tongue  and  now  probably  in  her 
mind,  since  she  was  staring  out  of  the  window.  But 
the  chop  arriving  at  the  same  moment,  Mrs.  Pinchin 
fastened  her  eyes  on  it,  and  contented  herself  with 
another  rumbling  "  Unh !  "  So  it  continued  through 
the  meal. 

The  last  batter  cake  had  just  been  cut  into  morsels 
on  her  plate  when  she  spoke  suddenly.  "  Have  my 
carriage  here  at  ten,"  she  ordered  abruptly,  her 
mouth  full,  "  and  see  to  it  that  it 's  here  on  time." 

Corrie  watched  her  attentively.  She  and  Miss 
56 


MRS.  PINCHIN  AND  MISS  MARIA 

Maria  had  long  finished  their  breakfast,  but  as  Mrs. 
Pinchin  disliked  to  have  anyone  rise  ahead  of  her, 
they  perforce  kept  their  seats.  With  both  knife  and 
fork  going  briskly,  Mrs.  Pinchin  pursued  the  last 
fragment  of  pancake  and  the  last  drops  of  maple 
syrup  to  the  edge  of  her  plate,  and  there  cornering 
the  toothsome  morsel,  implacably  speared  it.  A  few 
touches  with  the  knife  served  to  scrape  up  the  last  re 
maining  trickle  of  sweetness,  and  laying  down  her 
knife  on  the  table,  its  edge  resting  on  the  plate,  she 
raised  the  fork  toward  her  mouth. 

"  I  '11  be  out  all  day,"  she  announced  sharply,  and 
with  that  bolted  the  batter  cake.  To  answer  seemed 
unnecessary;  Corrie  merely  looked. 

Crumpling  her  napkin  into  a  ball,  Mrs.  Pinchin 
tossed  it  on  the  table,  and  reached  around  to  the 
chair  back  for  her  cane.  "  Go  get  my  engagement 
book,"  she  directed,  and,  glad  to  be  relieved,  the  girl 
sprang  up  from  her  seat.  As  she  went  up  the  stairs 
to  Mrs.  Pinchin's  room  she  heard  the  thick  voice 
murmur  something  in  an  undertone  to  Miss  Maria, 
and  then  Miss  Maria  answered  inaudibly.  Corrie 
hastened  on,  knowing  that  Mrs.  Pinchin  disliked  to  be 
kept  waiting,  and,  picking  up  the  engagement  book 
from  the  table,  she  retraced  her  steps  to  the 
dining  room. 

When  she  entered,  Miss  Maria  was  sitting  with 
downcast  eyes,  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap,  and  Mrs. 
Pinchin,  also  in  silence,  was  thoughtfully  munching 
the  remains  of  the  roll  beside  her  coffee  cup.  She 
took  the  book  from  Corrie  and  turned  to  the  page 

67 


CORRIE  WHO? 

under  the  date.  "  Hmph !  "  she  grunted,  working  her 
thick  eyebrows  into  a  frown ;  "  I  forgot  all  about 
the  club  reception.  Tell  that  Freedlark  woman  when 
she  comes  I  had  some  pressing  business  and  could  n't 
go."  She  twisted  up  her  mouth  into  a  grimace  as 
she  spoke,  and  chuckled  in  her  throat.  "  She  's  ex 
pecting  a  free  ride  in  my  carriage ;  I  guess  she  '11  be 
disappointed."  Miss  Maria,  still  silent  and  down 
cast,  made  no  comment ;  and  Corrie,  equally  mute, 
stood  awaiting  Mrs.  Pinchin's  wishes.  "  Hmph ! 
nothing  very  much,"  commented  Mrs.  Pinchin,  scan 
ning  the  pencil  notes  on  the  page.  "  If  anyone  else 
calls,  say  I  'm  out  for  the  day." 

She  closed  the  book,  ate  the  last  crumb  of  the  roll, 
and,  taking  a  gulp  of  water,  worked  her  lips  up  and 
down  over  her  teeth.  "  I  'm  going  to  my  room  now," 
she  announced,  picking  up  her  stick,  "  and  don't  you 
let  anyone  bother  me  till  it 's  time  for  the  carriage. 
Do  you  hear?  " 

Miss  Maria  hurried  down  the  hall  after  her.  "  I  'm 
going  out  with  you,"  Corrie  heard  her  whisper, 
swiftly,  determinedly ;  "  I  can't  sit  here  and  wait. 
I  must  go  with  you." 

Mrs.  Pinchin,  still  scrambling  along  down  the  hall, 
glowered  at  her  roughly  over  her  shoulder.  "  Go 
with  me?  You  '11  do  nothing  of  the  sort.  Think 
I  'm  going  to  have  you  cutting  up  and " 

A  warning  sshsh!  uttered  in  an  undertone  cut  her 
short.  Corrie  was  already  half  way  up  the  stairs, 
but  the  high  walls  had  carried  to  her  both  the  words 
and  the  hushed  warning.  Mrs.  Pinchin  and  Miss 

58 


MRS.  PINCHIN  AND  MISS  MARIA 

Maria  hurried  along  together,  Miss  Maria  cautious 
but  still  determined,  Mrs.  Pinchin  with  her  jaw  set 
and  looking  angry.  Opening  a  door  opposite  the 
entrance  to  the  drawing-room,  the  two  women  entered, 
and  Corrie  heard  the  latch  click  as  it  was  locked 
behind  them. 

The  room  was  one  that  neither  Corrie  nor  the  maids 
were  ever  permitted  to  enter,  Mrs.  Pinchin's  orders  on 
this  point  being  explicit  and  enforced.  It  was  invari 
ably  kept  locked,  but  once  or  twice  Corrie  had  stolen 
a  peep  into  its  interior  when  Mrs.  Pinchin  had  opened 
the  door  while  Corrie  was  unexpectedly  passing. 
There  was  a  big  desk  topped  by  a  rack  of  pigeon-holes 
standing  in  a  corner,  and  beside  it  a  cumbersome 
safe  guarded  by  a  combination  lock.  In  this  room 
Mrs.  Pinchin  securely  closeted  herself  the  first  three 
days  of  every  month,  when  from  behind  the  closed 
door  came  the  muttering  of  her  voice  and  the  clink 
of  coin  as  if  incessantly  counted  and  recounted.  On 
one  occasion  a  glimpse  into  the  room  had  shown  the 
desk  piled  high  with  bundles  of  bank  notes  and 
rouleaux  of  gold  and  silver,  —  all  this  wealth,  as  Cor 
rie  knew,  the  month's  income  from  Mrs.  Pinchin's 
properties.  In  itself  it  indicated  better  than  all  else 
how  well-to-do  a  person  Mrs.  Pinchin  really  was ;  the 
fact  that  she  gave  the  stewardship  into  no  other 
hands  than  her  own  attested  to  her  interest  and  sat 
isfaction  in  managing  it. 

This  morning,  however,  Mrs.  Pinchin  had  sought 
solitude  not  to  gloat  over  her  possessions,  but  for 
some  other  reason  best  known  to  herself.  Never- 

59 


CORRIE  WHO? 

theless,  Miss  Maria  pursued,  though  apparently  to 
little  purpose;  for  no  sooner  had  the  door  closed 
behind  the  two,  than  it  was  almost  immediately  flung 
open  again,  and  the  rasp  of  Mrs.  Pinchin's  voice  was 
heard  raised  in  irritation. 

"  How  many  times  have  I  got  to  say  it  now? 
Come,  stop  your  bawling,  I  say.  You  've  got  to  stay 
and  do  what  I  've  told  you." 

There  was  no  answer,  no  other  sound  save  a  scuffle 
of  feet  along  the  hall  carpeting.  Corrie,  a  little  curi 
ous  —  a  little  more  than  curious,  now  that  she  had 
sensed  the  strange  occurrences  going  on  in  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin's  —  Corrie  on  the  qui  vive,  leaned  over  the  balus 
ters  and  looked  down.  What  was  happening  between 
the  two  strange  characters,  —  these  two  women  who 
had  always  acted  strangely?  And  in  what  relation 
stood  these  queer  happenings  to  herself?  Corrie  had 
many  reasons  to  peep,  so  Corrie  peeped. 

There  was  Miss  Maria  painfully  climbing  the  stair, 
her  head  turned  back  to  look  toward  Mrs.  Pinchin's 
room.  She  had  a  handkerchief  pressed  to  her  lips, 
and  she  was  weeping  silently,  abjectly,  piteously. 
Nor  were  her  tears  the  tears  that  Miss  Maria  so  read 
ily  gave  way  to  —  Miss  Maria  tired,  uncomfortable, 
cross  —  the  tears  usual  to  a  weak  and,  by  nature, 
woe-begone  spirit.  They  betrayed  now,  instead,  every 
convincing  sign  of  an  intense  and  tragic  misery, 
a  sorrow  of  great  emotion.  Half  way  to  the  land 
ing  she  paused  suddenly  in  her  funeral-like  gait,  and 
Corrie,  watching  and  listening  above,  heard  the  thud 
of  Mrs.  Pinchin's  stick  along  the  hall. 

60 


MRS.  PINCHIN  AND  MISS  MARIA 

"  Come,  Maria,"  said  Mrs.  Pinchin's  voice,  soft 
ened  now  by  a  hint  of  kindness,  "  you  must  n't  take 
on  like  that.  I  'd  let  you  go,  only  the  house  can't  be 
left." 

She  broke  off  there,  her  voice  filled  with  meaning ; 
and  bowing  her  head,  Miss  Maria  started  again  up 
the  stairs.  Instantly  Corrie  darted  out  of  sight. 

Promptly  at  ten  o'clock,  as  ordered,  Mrs.  Pinchin's 
carriage  drove  up  to  her  door.  It  was  a  small, 
lightly  built  brougham,  its  doors  and  side  panels 
varnished  black,  its  underbody  checked  in  yellow  in 
imitation  of  a  cane  chair  seat.  The  running  gear 
and  wheels,  together  of  a  dark  cobalt,  were  picked 
out  in  a  lighter,  more  racy  blue ;  and  in  place  of  be 
ing  drawn  by  a  single  horse,  as  its  build  intended, 
a  pair  of  chestnut  roans,  big  and  strong  enough  to 
have  hauled  a  much  larger  equipage,  were  harnessed 
to  its  pole.  One,  the  off  horse,  which  was  slightly  the 
smaller  of  the  two,  displayed  a  tendency  to  go  lame 
in  the  cannon-bone,  where  one  saw  it  had  been  fired 
for  the  splint ;  but  this  infirmity  was  slight,  and  was 
more  than  balanced  by  the  fact  that  a  bog  spavin  on 
the  hock  of  its  mate  was  as  bad,  if  not  worse.  Cas 
ually,  one  might  have  expressed  the  opinion  that  Mrs. 
Pinchin  was  able  to  support  a  sounder  pair;  but  the 
fact  remains  that  the  horses  were  the  first  and  only 
ones  she  had  ever  owned,  and,  though  worn  out  and 
antique,  they  seemed  to  her  only  the  more  respectable 
because  of  their  age.  Their  harness,  in  conformity 
with  the  lightness  of  the  brougham,  was  itself  light ; 

61 


CORRIE  WHO? 

little  heavier,  in  fact,  than  that  of  a  road  wagon, 
though  this  was  more  than  offset  by  the  size  and 
heaviness  of  the  pole  chains.  They  were  large,  highly 
polished,  and  noisy. 

Mrs.  Pinchin  came  down  the  steps  supported  on 
one  side  by  the  hand  rail,  on  the  other  by  the  cane. 
At  her  heels  Corrie  followed  bearing  a  light  wrap,  a 
large  and  bulging,  silver-mounted  reticule,  and  a 
thick  brown  veil;  and  at  Corrie's  heels  followed 
Maggie,  the  waitress,  her  arms  embracing  a  paste 
board  box  such  as  tailors  use.  One  by  one,  wrap, 
reticule,  veil,  and  paper  box  were  loaded  into  the 
brougham  under  Mrs.  Pinchin's  directions,  and  then, 
with  one  hand  on  the  carriage  door,  she  gave  her 
orders  to  the  coachman. 

"  Go  through  the  Park  and  down  the  Avenue.  I  '11 
let  you  know  when  I  want  to  stop." 

Her  man  conformed  in  appearance  to  the  rest  of 
Mrs.  Pinchin's  turnout.  He  was  a  young  mulatto, 
dressed  in  a  light  blue  livery  piped  with  red,  cream- 
colored  doeskins,  high  boots  with  russet  tops,  and,  to 
finish  off  with,  a  silk  hat  topped  with  a  black,  shiny 
cockade.  Lurching  ahead  under  a  touch  of  the  whip, 
the  roans  started  ponderously,  and  the  carriage, 
bounding  over  the  stones  with  a  lively  jingle  and  a 
clanking  of  its  chains,  passed  off  down  the  street  and, 
turning  at  the  corner,  made  for  the  nearest  entrance 
to  the  Park. 

On  pleasant  afternoons  Mrs.  Pinchin  drove  both 
there  and  in  the  Avenue;  usually,  however,  in  a 
C-spring  victoria,  very  broad  as  to  its  girth  and 


MRS.  PINCHIN  AND  MISS  MARIA 

noticeably  wide  as  to  its  mudguards.  Her  look  on 
these  occasions,  as  she  lolled  back  among  the  cushions, 
was  patterned  after  the  same  blank,  austere  expres 
sion  one  noted  on  the  faces  of  the  other  carriage 
folk,  who  went  junketing  by  in  their  own  victorias, 
barouches,  landaus,  whatnots.  But  that  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin,  unlike  them,  had  not  altogether  lost  all  interest 
in  her  surroundings  was  evident,  now  and  then,  in  her 
little  glances  toward  the  other  vehicles,  by  the  manner 
in  which  she  took  note  of  their  haughty-visaged  oc 
cupants.  It  was  a  look  of  expectancy,  as  if  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin  awaited  a  bow,  a  nod  of  recognition  from  some 
one  of  the  countless  hundreds  that  rolled  by  in  their 
oblivion  of  her  and  others  like  her.  But  somehow 
the  eye  turned  furtively  on  the  lookout  rarely,  if  ever, 
recognized  a  familiar  sail  in  all  this  argosy,  though, 
of  course,  in  a  city  as  large  as  New  York  anyone 
might  drive  on  forever  and  never  chance  on  a  friend. 
To-day,  however,  Mrs.  Pinchin  wore  no  air  of  pa 
tiently  awaiting  a  bow ;  she  cast  no  sidelong  glances 
into  the  nearby  vehicles.  She  sat,  instead,  with  her 
hand  on  the  door  of  the  brougham  as  if  to  propel  it 
onward,  and  kept  her  face  set  straight  before  her. 
Once  she  leaned  from  the  window  and  spoke  sharply 
to  the  coachman.  "  Drive  faster !  "  she  ordered,  and 
there  was  an  answering  clatter  of  hoofs  on  the  asphalt 
as  the  roans  sprang  forward  under  the  lash.  Past 
Forty-second  Street,  Twenty-third  Street,  Fourteenth 
Street  the  carriage  rolled  on.  At  Ninth  Street, 
however,  Mrs.  Pinchin  stuck  her  head  from  the  win 
dow.  "  Turn  west,"  she  ordered  briefly ;  and  the 

63 


CORRIE  WHO? 

horses,  swinging  the  corner,  pounded  their  way  along 
the  dingy,  old-fashioned  "street. 

"  Stop ! "  called  Mrs.  Pinchin,  half  her  body  pro 
truding  from  the  carriage  window. 

It  might  have  astonished  some  of  the  lady's  closer 
acquaintances  had  they  seen  her  at  the  moment. 
As  she  loved  to  tell  them,  she  seldom  walked,  and  un 
der  no  circumstances  whatever  would  she  think  of 
riding  in  a  public  conveyance.  This  statement  was 
always  accompanied  by  a  shrug  expressive  of  her  dis 
taste,  as  if  to  ride  in  a  street  car,  for  instance,  were 
to  offer  one's  self  voluntarily  to  all  the  perils  of  con 
tagion,  insult,  pickpockets,  even  personal  injury, 
—  conditions  which  every  gentlewoman  should  waste 
no  effort  to  avoid.  Furthermore,  none  of  her  ac 
quaintances  had  ever  met  her  in  the  street  laden  down 
with  bundles,  a  contingency  that  on  the  face  of  it 
appeared  to  be  absurd. 

But,  opening  the  door  of  her  brougham,  Mrs. 
Pinchin  alighted  and  dragged  after  her  the  heavy 
pasteboard  box.  The  wrap  and  the  veil  she  had 
donned  during  the  last  stage  of  her  drive;  the  reti 
cule  hung  from  her  belt.  Giving  the  black  brocade 
skirt  a  flutter  to  arrange  it,  and  shrugging  her 
shoulders  to  settle  the  jet-trimmed  wrap,  she  looked 
up  and  down  the  street.  There  was  an  alert  air  in  her 
darkly  tinted  eyes,  and  her  face  under  the  brown  veil 
and  the  almost  turban-like  bonnet  she  wore  had,  for 
the  moment,  lost  its  usual  loose  flabbiness  of  chin  and 
j  owl.  "  You  go  back  to  the  stable,"  she  ordered,  her 
stick  waved  up  the  street  as  if  to  point  the  way.  "  Go 

64 


MRS.  PINCHIN  AND  MISS  MARIA 

on,  now;  I  don't  need  you  any  more,"  she  added 
gruffly ;  "  and  don't  you  stop  in  anywhere  on  the  way, 
mind  you." 

The  astonished  mulatto  pulled  his  roans  around. 
He,  too,  may  have  wished  to  ask  questions,  —  the 
questions  that  any  acquaintance  of  Mrs.  Pinchin's 
might  have  wished  to  ask,  —  but  the  look  on  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin's  grim  visage  was  not  the  kind  to  invite  inquiry. 
With  another  wave  of  her  stick  she  sent  him  on  the 
way,  standing  at  the  curb  and  looking  after  him.  But 
the  carriage  had  scarcely  proceeded  half  up  the  block, 
when  the  coachman,  despite  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin  might  still  be  watching  him,  could  no  longer  re 
sist  his  curiosity.  Swinging  around  on  the  box,  his 
face  still  filled  with  bewilderment,  he  looked,  and 
what  he  saw  so  profoundly  interested  him  that  he 
pulled  up  the  roans  and  sat  there,  a  rapt  and  won 
dering  beholder. 

For  Mrs.  Pinchin,  her  stick  smartly  thwacking  the 
pavement,  and  the  pasteboard  box  clenched  under  her 
arm,  had  darted  over  the  Sixth  Avenue  crossing,  and 
now  at  all  her  speed  was  fast  disappearing  into  the 
outlying  slums  that  fringe  old  Greenwich  Village. 


65 


CHAPTER   IV 

Which  may  be  described  as  a  chessboard,  whereon  the  several 
players  display  their  strategy.  —  Reappears  Mr.  Stanton, 
Mrs.  Pinchin's  singular  guest,  in  the  suspicious  character 
of  an  amateur  cracksman.  —  Miss  Maria's  aversion  for  her 
patron's  friend.  —  Carrie's  flight,  and  the  search  for  the 
Missing  Dwelling.  —  Greenwich  Village.  —  The  house 
with  the  green  blinds,  the  white  pillars,  and  the  fan  light  over 
the  door.  —  Carrie  rings  the  doorbell. 

TF  the  episode  of  Mrs.  Pinchin  abandoning  her 
•*•  carriage  in  the  streets  seems  curious,  not  less  re 
markable  were  the  events  in  that  lady's  house  imme 
diately  on  the  heels  of  her  departure.  Perhaps  even 
remarkable  cannot  describe  them. 

The  chestnut  roans,  ambling  away  from  her  door, 
had  no  sooner  turned  the  corner  toward  the  Park, 
when  Corrie,  darting  for  the  stairs,  made  at  full 
speed  for  her  room  on  the  top  floor.  She  went 
noiselessly,  her  footfalls  making  little  sound  on  the 
thick  carpet ;  but  she  had  no  sooner  turned  the  elbow 
of  the  stairs  above  the  second  story,  when  Miss 
Maria's  door  opened  slowly,  slyly,  and  Miss  Maria 
stuck  out  her  head.  She  still  held  the  handkerchief  to 
her  lips,  and  her  eyes,  even  more  watery  and  inflamed 
than  before,  evidenced  the  tears  she  had  so  recently 
shed  and  still  seemed  ready  to  shed  again  at  the 
slightest  provocation.  She  stood  for  a  moment  listen 
ing;  then  tiptoeing  to  the  stairway,  she  looked  up 

66 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  BLINDS 

over  the  balusters  in  an  attitude  of  the  deepest  at 
tention,  and  began  guardedly  to  climb  the  flight. 
Once  one  of  the  treads  creaked  underfoot,  and,  press 
ing  the  handkerchief  convulsively  to  her  lips,  Miss 
Maria  waited  before  going  on.  Then,  as  her  head 
reached  the  level  of  the  floor  above,  she  halted  again, 
her  eyes  even  with  the  floor ;  and  like  a  scout  spying 
over  the  crest  of  a  hill,  Miss  Maria  looked  long  and 
intently  toward  the  door  of  Corrie's  room.  It  was 
ajar,  and,  as  Miss  Maria  peeped,  Corrie  stepped  into 
the  hall  suddenly,  her  hat  on,  and  a  light  j  acket  under 
her  arm. 

Instantly  the  watcher  turned  and  fled  down  the 
stairway.  Regaining  her  room  at  the  foot  of  the 
flight,  she  shut  the  door  softly,  and  then,  almost  at 
the  same  instant,  flung  it  open  with  a  louS  rattling  of 
the  knob.  "  Corrie !  "  she  vociferated.  "  Corrie ! 
Corrie!  Where  are  you?  " 

At  the  precise  moment  Corrie  was  leaning  over  the 
balustrade  reconnoitering  the  floors  below.  She 
started  guiltily.  "  Corrie !  "  cried  Miss  Maria  again ; 
and  at  the  second  summons  the  girl  shrank  back 
from  the  railing,  and,  tossing  her  coat  behind  her, 
snatched  off  her  hat  and  threw  it  after  the  jacket. 

"Yes,  Miss  Maria;  what  is  it?"  asked  Corrie, 
walking  half  down  the  stairs. 

If  Miss  Maria  felt  any  astonishment  at  the  girl's 
transformation  —  Corrie  at  one  moment  hatted  and 
ready  for  the  street,  at  the  next  bareheaded  and  with 
out  her  jacket  —  if  Miss  Maria  wondered,  indeed, 
there  was  no  hint  of  it  in  her  face.  "  Why  don't 

67 


CORRIE  WHO? 

you  answer?  "  she  demanded  vexedly.  "  I  've  been 
calling  all  over  the  house  fer  you.  What  are  you 
doing?  " 

Corrie  answered  frankly  she  had  heard  herself 
called  only  once.  "  I  'm  not  doing  anything,  Miss 
Maria.  Do  you  need  me?  " 

Miss  Maria's  eyes  dropped  under  the  girl's  firm 
look.  "  Mrs.  Pinchin  says  you  're  to  finish  the  house 
hold  accounts,"  she  grumbled  peevishly ;  "  she  wants 
them  when  she  gets  back." 

Corrie  murmured  an  exclamation  of  astonishment. 
"  The  household  accounts !  Why,  Miss  Maria,  I  gave 
them  to  her  last  night." 

The  answer,  direct  in  its  unexpectedness,  seemed 
to  fill  Miss  Maria  with  confusion.  "  Why  —  now  — 
why  did  you  ?  "  she  stammered  awkwardly ;  "  well, 
I  think  it 's  very  strange  she  did  n't  tell  me.  Any 
way,"  added  Miss  Maria,  sulkily,  "  there  's  plenty  for 
you  to  do.  Go  finish  sewing  those  mull  ruffles  on  Mrs. 
Pinchin's  tea  gown.  You  '11  hear  from  her  if  it  is  n't 
done ! " 

Corrie  opened  her  mouth  as  if  to  say  something, 
changed  her  mind,  and  came  down  the  stairs.  In 
Mrs.  Pinchin's  closet  she  found  the  tea  gown,  and 
while  the  fact  remains  that  Corrie  had  already 
changed  the  ruffles  as  ordered,  she  folded  the  gown 
over  her  arm,  the  ruffles  inside  where  Miss  Maria  could 
not  see  them,  and  walked  back  to  her  room. 

Listening  at  the  balusters,  Miss  Maria  heard  the 
girl  shut  her  door.  Yet  even  then  she  seemed  un 
satisfied,  for  dragging  a  rocker  to  where  it  com- 

68 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  BLINDS 

manded  a  view  of  the  stairway,  she  sat  down  with  her 
sewing  in  her  hand  and  began  to  rock  furiously. 
That  she  was  on  the  watch  was  of  course  evident; 
and  that  perhaps  she  had  good  cause  to  be  on  the 
lookout  was  no  less  evident  ten  minutes  later,  when 
Corrie  tiptoed  to  the  stairway  and  peeped  over  the 
rail. 

Once  more,  Corrie  wore  her  hat  and  coat,  but  in 
stantly  warned  by  the  creak  of  Miss  Maria's  chair,  she 
drew  back  hastily.  There  she  stood,  frowning  and 
perturbed,  and  whatever  were  her  reasons  for  wish 
ing  to  go  out,  it  seemed,  for  the  moment,  as  if  Miss 
Maria  had  outwitted  her.  But  Miss  Maria's  strat 
egy,  as  it  turned  out,  lacked  the  same  force  and  de 
cisiveness  as  Mrs.  Pinchin's.  Corrie  was  going  slowly 
back  to  her  room  when  a  thought  struck  her,  a 
scheme  that  brought  a  smile  leaping  to  her  lips.  For 
if  Miss  Maria  had  reasons  to  avoid  ordering  her 
pointedly  to  stay  indoors,  if  Corrie  dared  not  ask 
permission  to  go  out,  there  was  still  a  way  to  get 
around  the  matter. 

The  wide  well  of  the  stairway  reached  from  the 
lower  floor  to  the  roof.  Taking  off  her  hat  and  coat, 
and  rolling  them  together  in  a  bundle,  Corrie  leaned 
over  the  rail  until  she  could  get  a  glimpse  of  Miss 
Maria  bent  above  her  sewing.  "  Now!  "  exclaimed 
Corrie  to  herself,  and  dropped  the  hat  and  coat 
through  the  stair  well. 

The  bundle  struck  the  lower  floor  with  a  light 
thump  and  bounded  out  of  view.  But  light  as  the 
sound,  Miss  Maria  had  heard  it,  and  she  leaped  up 


CORRIE  WHO? 

with  an  exclamation  and  ran  to  the  balustrade.  Noth 
ing  was  to  be  seen,  however;  there  was  no  one  in 
sight,  either  above  or  below,  and  after  peering  up 
the  stairs  suspiciously,  she  returned  to  her  seat,  where 
she  still  sat  and  rocked  and  watched  alertly.  She 
was  still  at  her  vigil  when  Corrie  came  uncon 
cernedly  down  the  stairs. 

The  fact  that  the  girl  wore  neither  hat  nor  coat 
seemed  to  reassure  Miss  Maria  that  Corrie  had  given 
up  all  hope  of  stealing  out  of  the  house.  "  Don't 
forget  she  wants  to  wear  that  tea  gown  to-night," 
she  warned  again  pointedly,  and  Corrie  nodding,  Miss 
Maria  smiled  faintly  to  herself,  and  once  more  bent 
over  her  sewing.  The  smile  was  as  if  in  acknowl 
edgment  that  the  victory  was  her  own. 

But  once  in  the  lower  hall,  Corrie's  manner  of  un 
concern  fell  from  her  swiftly.  Snatching  up  her  hat 
and  coat,  she  slipped  into  the  dining  room  and  hastily 
put  them  on  before  the  sideboard  mirror.  The  coast 
still  was  clear.  Straightening  her  hat  and  tucking 
in  her  sleeves  with  a  few  hasty  dabs,  she  turned  and 
sped  toward  the  front  door.  In  a  moment  she  would 
be  in  the  street. 

But  in  the  same  moment  a  key  rattled  sharply  in 
the  latch.  Who  was  it  —  Mrs.  Pinchin?  Corrie 
halted,  nervously.  There  was  no  time  left  either  to 
retreat  or  to  slip  into  the  dimly  shaded  drawing-room 
on  the  right ;  but  close  beside  her  stood  a  tall,  corpu 
lent  floor  clock,  an  antique  as  to  type,  yet  extremely 
modern  as  to  its  highly  varnished  woodwork  and  shiny 
metal.  Any  port  in  a  storm,  however,  and  with  an 

70 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  BLINDS 

agile  movement  the  girl  shrugged  up  close  beside  it, 
her  form  pressed  tightly  against  the  wall,  her  heart 
thumping  as  loudly  as  the  measured  tick!  tock!  of 
the  timepiece. 

As  the  door  slowly  opened,  admitting  a  flood  of 
light  from  the  street,  Corrie  peeped  —  another  peep 
in  that  morning's  round  of  crafty,  prying,  furtive 
doings.  A  man  stood  in  the  doorway  also  peering 
cautiously,  and  it  was  Mr.  Stanton,  Mrs.  Pinchin's 
familiar  guest. 

Listening  a  moment,  he  left  the  door  open  behind 
him,  and  turned  quickly  toward  that  small  room  on 
the  left,  the  room  where  Mrs.  Pinchin  kept  her  desk 
•  and  safe.  Raising  his  hand,  he  tapped  softly,  waited 
a  moment  with  his  hawklike  face  fixed  in  an  air  of 
intense  attention,  and  then  tried  the  knob.  It  was 
locked,  of  course,  as  Mr.  Stanton  perhaps  expected; 
for  after  a  sharp  look  about  him,  he  reached  his  hand 
into  his  pocket,  and  then  drawing  it  forth  fumbled 
a  moment  with  the  lock. 

It  was  a  movement  so  slight  that  Corrie  could 
hardly  detect  it;  nor  was  there  any  opportunity 
left  to  see  what  else  he  would  do;  for  just  then,  as 
if  suspecting  her  presence,  Mr.  Stanton  turned 
swiftly  and  caught  sight  of  Corrie  peering  from 
behind  the  clock. 

As  his  eyes  fell  on  her,  his  hawklike  face  displayed 
for  an  instant  the  least  possible  hint  of  confusion. 
"Ah!  it's  the  dear  young  girl,  isn't  it?"  he  re 
marked,  recovering  himself,  his  tone  easy  and  ban 
tering.  "  Bound  for  a  constitutional,  I  take  it,"  he 

71 


CORRIE  WHO? 

observed,  noting  her  hat  and  j  acket ;  "  I  trust  I 
have  n't  detained  you !  " 

Corrie  emerged  in  confusion  from  her  hiding-place. 
"  No  —  not  you  —  I  thought  it  was  Mrs.  Pinchin," 
she  faltered,  the  words  slipping  from  her  tongue  in 
her  embarrassment.  Mr.  Stanton  laughed  outright. 

"  What !  The  little  bird  is  fleeing  from  the  gilded 
nest?"  he  mocked  jocosely;  "from  Mrs.  Pinchin's 
ornamental  birdcage  ?  " 

In  the  long  time  that  Corrie  had  known  Mr.  Stan- 
ton,  or  rather,  in  the  years  she  had  seen  him  coming 
occasionally  to  Mrs.  Pinchin's,  his  talk  with  her  had 
been  restricted  always  to  just  such  bantering;  this 
same  jocose,  mocking  way  of  his.  Perhaps  because 
of  it  she  kept  a  distance  between  them  when  she  could, 
and  never  evinced  the  slightest  wish  to  lessen  it.  "  If 
you  're  coming  in,  Mr.  Stanton,"  she  announced 
coldly,  "  I  '11  go  out.  Please  let  me  by." 

But  instead  of  moving  aside,  he  still  kept  his  hand 
on  the  door  knob,  effectually  blocking  the  way. 
"  What !  hurrying  away  from  me?  "  he  inquired, 
beaming  j  ocosely.  "  Come,  that  is  n't  very  nice  of 
you." 

Corrie's  clear  eyes  looked  at  him  unwaveringly. 
"Do  you  wish  to  see  Mrs.  Pinchin?"  she  asked 
abruptly,  ignoring  both  the  manner  and  the  words. 
"  I  'm  most  sorry  to  say  she  's  out  for  the  day." 

Immediately  Mr.  Stanton's  merriment  departed. 
"  Eh  —  what  ?  Out  for  the  day !  "  he  exclaimed. 
"  Why  I  thought  she  never  arose  till  noon.  She  said 
last  night  she  'd  wait  for  me.  Where  's  she  gone?  " 

72 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  BLINDS 

Corrie  shook  her  head.  "  I  have  n't  the  slightest 
idea,"  she  was  answering,  when  Miss  Maria's  voice 
raised  itself,  crying  shrilly  from  the  floor  above. 
"  Corrie !  Corrie !  Where  are  you  ?  " 

At  the  first  echo  of  the  voice  Corrie's  self-posses 
sion  fled.  "  Let  me  out,  Mr.  Stanton,"  she  begged 
urgently,  her  head  turned  to  watch  the  stairway. 
"  Please  let  me  out !  "  she  pleaded  insistently,  and 
edging  toward  him,  the  girl  tried  to  slip  through  the 
doorway. 

Mr.  Stanton,  so  far  from  standing  aside,  still 
blocked  the  passage,  a  faint,  quizzical  smile  on  his 
lips.  "  Ah !  "  he  observed,  drawling  the  words  leis 
urely  ;  "  the  little  bird  is,  indeed,  flitting  from  the 
nest.  She  is  spreading  her  wings,  notwithstanding." 

Miss  Maria  was  coming.  "  Corrie "  she  cried 
angrily,  her  suspicions  obviously  aroused ;  "  what 
are  you  doing?  " 

There  on  the  stairway  Miss  Maria  halted  abruptly, 
peering  at  the  tableau  in  the  doorway.  She  blinked 
for  a  moment,  and  then  her  eyes  fixed  themselves,  not 
on  Corrie,  but  on  Mr.  Stanton,  and  blankly  stared  at 
him. 

It  would  have  been  difficult,  from  the  expression, 
to  identify  Miss  Maria's  emotion.  She  stood  rigid, 
her  head  perked  forward,  her  rounded  shoulders 
hunched  up  awkwardly.  Never  had  Miss  Maria 
seemed  so  dowdy,  so  inelegant,  so  ordinary  and  unat 
tractive.  Once  she  moistened  her  lips,  and  then,  with 
an  uneasy  movement,  raised  her  hand  and  brushed 
back  a  wisp  of  her  ginger-hued  hair.  But  whatever 

73 


CORRIE  WHO? 

Miss  Maria's  feelings,  Mr.  Stanton  on  the  other 
hand  seemed  confidently  self-possessed.  He  looked 
back  at  Miss  Maria,  and  on  his  thin  lips  was  a  smile 
at  once  gracious,  benign,  deferential,  and  utterly  and 
unmistakably  mocking.  "  Ah !  it 's  Miss  Maria, 
isn't  it?"  he  ventured  cheerfully.  "Perhaps  Miss 
Maria  can  tell  where  Mrs.  Pinchin  may  be  found?  " 

If  Miss  Maria  could,  she  certainly  made  no  effort 
to  do  so.  Still  silent,  she  still  blinked  at  Mr.  Stanton ; 
and,  after  waiting  a  moment,  he  spoke  again. 
"  Where  is  Mrs.  Pinchin  ?  "  he  asked,  and,  leaving 
the  door  walked  slowly  toward  her.  "  Where  is 
she?  "  he  demanded,  and  this  time  there  was  a  ring  of 
sharpness  in  his  voice.  "  Come !  I  wish  to  know !  " 

But  after  another  prolonged  blank  and  expres 
sionless  stare,  Miss  Maria  turned  on  her  heel,  and 
solemnly  disappeared. 

"Well,  I'll  be >"  began  Mr.  Stanton,  grinning; 

and  then  looked  around. 

The  hallway  was  deserted  but  for  himself.  Cor- 
rie,  during  the  colloquy,  had  seized  her  opportunity, 
and  darting  through  the  doorway,  was  now  hurrying 
down  the  street. 

,  •  **     ''•;• 

Some  minutes  later  Corrie,  quite  breathless  from 
her  walk,  boarded  a  southbound  train  on  the  "  L." 
With  her  hands  clasped  tightly  together  in  her  lap, 
she  gazed  from  the  car  window,  her  eyes  fixed  vacantly 
in  thought.  It  was  a  deep  thought,  too,  pertinent 
and  accusing.  The  morning's  events  —  the  scene  be 
tween  Miss  Maria  and  Mrs.  Pinchin,  Miss  Maria's 

74 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  BLINDS 

tragic  tears,  and  afterwards  her  encounter  with  the 
singular  Mr.  Stanton  —  all  this  had  stirred  the  girl's 
young  mind  unusually.  For  even  Corrie,  in  her  queer 
association  with  life,  knew  that  morning's  doings  to 
be  occurrences  such  as  one  should  hardly  look  for  in 
well-regulated,  ordinary,  self-respecting  households. 
What  was  going  on?  What  was  the  meaning  of  it, 
anyhow?  There  was  even  alarm  in  her  mind  as  she 
recalled  each  one  of  the  curious  happenings.  Who, 
indeed,  was  this  Mr.  Stanton?  What,  for  instance, 
the  antagonism,  even  the  hatred  that  Miss  Maria  had 
shown  for  him?  Had  all  this,  too,  something  to  do 
with  Corrie's  own  case  —  the  mystery  of  her  origin  ? 
But  even  in  the  turmoil  of  her  mind  she  shook  her 
head  at  the  thought  —  not  in  the  least  likely !  But 
then  again,  what  was  it?  Though  ridiculous,  ab 
surd,  impossible  indeed,  there  came  back  to  her  the 
thought,  the  possibility,  that  once  it  all  were  solved, 
she  would  find  in  the  solution  the  answer  to  her  own 
other  queries  —  Corrie  Who?  and  Corrie  What?  On 
this  very  mission  too,  in  fact,  Corrie  this  morning  had 
escaped  from  Mrs.  Pinchm's. 

It  was  not  the  first  time  she  had  stolen  away  on  the 
quest.  From  the  time  Mrs.  Pinchin  had  said  her  name 
was  Robinson,  from  the  moment  she  divined  from  the 
admission  there  was  a  hidden  mystery  about  herself, 
Corrie  had  been  carrying  on  a  random  hunt  through 
the  highways  and  byways.  It  was  for  a  house  she 
hunted  —  that  same  house  of  which  she  had  spoken  to 
Philip  Geikie,  Mrs.  Pinchin's  young  and  smiling  guest. 
It  was  a  double  brick  house  with  white  pillars  at  the 

75 


CORRIE  WHO? 

door,  a  fan  light  over  it,  green  blinds  on  the  windows 
and  a  queer  little  spindle  railing  on  the  steps.  There 
Mrs.  Pinchin,  Miss  Maria,  and  Corrie  had  lived  at  the 
time  Corrie  talked  through  a  gap  in  the  backyard 
fence.  If  Corrie  could  find  the  house  again,  she  hoped 
to  find,  too,  the  snub-nosed,  brown-haired  boy  who  had 
tried  to  tell  her  what  his  father  knew.  Of  course  Mrs. 
Pinchin  would  n't  clear  up  a  thing  like  that,  nor  was 
Miss  Maria  likely  to  help  her.  No!  she  must  find 
the  boy  himself.  For  Corrie  by  this  time  had  decided 
that  whatever  the  boy  meant  to  tell  her  was  just  what 
Mrs.  Pinchin  would  n't  tell,  and,  at  the  same  time, 
perhaps  a  reason  why  they  all  had  flitted  in  the 
night  time  from  the  house  she  now  was  hunting. 

All  sorts  of  places  had  known  her  wanderings  in 
search  of  it,  —  vagrant  moments  like  this,  when  she 
had  managed  to  escape  from  Mrs.  Pinchin's.  To-day 

—  though  Mr.  Geikie  had  only  j  oked  —  to-day  Cor 
rie  headed  herself   for  a  new  quarter,   the  twisted, 
haphazard,    half-forgotten    byways    of    quaint    and 
quiet,  down-at-the-heels  Greenwich  Village.     A  joke 

—  yes !    if  one  recalled  the  twinkle  in  Mr.  Geikie's 
eye.     But  it  was  no  joke  to  Corrie.     She  had  caught 
at  it  as  the  drowning  man  clutches  at  a  straw. 

"  Eighth  Street !  "  bellowed  the  guard,  thrusting 
back  the  car  door;  and  Corrie,  leaping  up  from  her 
reverie,  followed  the  few  other  passengers  herding 
toward  the  platform.  At  the  sidewalk  she  paused 
uncertainly.  "  Well,"  she  murmured,  after  a  mo 
ment's  reflection,  "  one  way  is  as  good  as  another. 
Besides,  I  've  got  to  try  them  all,  anyway."  Turn- 

76 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  BLINDS 

ing  to  the  west,  she  hurried  down  Greenwich  Avenue, 
and,  crossing  over  to  the  other  side,  walked  down  the 
defile  of  a  narrow,  squalid  side  street. 

The  roar  of  the  elevated,  the  clamor  of  cable  cars, 
the  clatter  of  trucks,  carriages,  and  all  the  remaining 
noises  of  a  busy  life  faded  behind  her  like  the  mur 
muring  voice  of  a  heavy  sea.  Here  the  city  and  its 
striving  seemed  to  have  dropped  a  peg  or  two,  per 
haps  even  more  than  that,  its  key  lowered  many  oc 
taves  to  whispers,  pianissimo  and  somnolent.  An  oc 
casional  knot  of  grimy-faced  children  shrilled  at  their 
play  along  the  curbs,  or  it  was  a  group  of  loungers 
at  doorway  or  street  corner,  shawled  women  idly 
gossiping,  men  with  nothing  to  do;  the  windows, 
opened  to  the  spring  sunshine,  revealed  glimpses  of 
the  dingy  life  within;  a  huckster,  his  voice  softened 
and  attuned  by  the  distance,  cried  his  wares  beyond, 
and  the  further  Corrie  walked  on  from  the  avenue, 
plunging  into  the  isolated  quarter,  the  more  sleepy 
and  repressed  grew  the  surroundings,  the  more  de 
tached  and  unfamiliar  from  the  bustle  and  activity 
roaring  closely  on  its  sides. 

Studying  the  houses  as  she  went  along,  she  turned 
corner  after  corner,  intently  on  the  lookout  for  that 
one  particular  mansion.  At  times  she  walked  little 
side  streets,  quiet,  peaceful  byways  lined  with  row 
after  row  of  small,  quaint-faced,  old-fashioned  dwell 
ings,  byways  where  unfretted  silence  pervaded  as 
supremely  as  in  the  walks  of  a  country  churchyard. 
There  were,  occasionally,  very  neat  little  houses  too, 
the  brass  plates  and  bell  handles  on  their  doors,  the 

77 


flags  in  front  and  their  stone  steps  scrubbed  as  neat 
and  clean  as  a  pin ;  and  even  the  persons  that  emerged 
from  their  doors  or  peeped  from  their  windows 
seemed  neat  and  clean  and  prim  and  restful,  not  at 
all  like  the  crowds  of  that  great  city  roaring  by  just 
at  the  street  end. 

Then  came  a  part  of  the  quarter  where  the  houses 
grew  more  pretentious.  They,  too,  were  old-fash 
ioned,  quaint,  and  prim;  in  their  size  and  architec 
ture  they  recalled  a  period  when  persons  of  more  than 
moderate  circumstances  had  dwelt  in  Greenwich  Vil 
lage — well-to-do  merchants,  perhaps  graduating  into 
merchant  princes,  rising  politicals  advancing  towards 
statesmanship,  professional  men  edging  into  promin 
ence  —  the  upper  middle  class  ready  to  burst  from 
its  chrysalis  shell  and  wing  away  into  upper  realms. 
Corrie  stared  more  intently  at  these  bigger  houses, 
her  interest  quickening  at  the  sight  of  them.  They 
seemed  known,  familiar,  like  something  she  had  seen 
before.  But  all  were  so  hopelessly  alike,  dozens  and 
dozens  of  them,  row  after  row  together,  that  her  mind 
became  confused  and  bewildered  with  their  number. 

For  all,  or  nearly  all,  had  green  shutters  and  fan 
lights  over  their  doors,  and  some  had  white  pillars 
and  even  the  spindle  railing  —  the  very  details  that 
Corrie  hunted.  But  in  no  case  were  all  the  details 
combined ;  one  or  the  other  was  always  missing  in  the 
general  make-up,  and,  though  ever  tempted  onward 
by  some  other  house  a  little  further  along,  she  reached 
it  only  to  know  at  a  glance  she  must  still  keep  on 
hunting  for  the  lost,  mysterious  mansion. 

78 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  BONDS 

"  Oh  dear !  "  murmured  Corrie,  halting  at  a  corner 
under  a  street  lamp;  "  where  am  I?  Ravine  Street! 
Ravine  ?  Ravine  ?  "  she  repeated  reflectively ;  "  have 
I  ever  heard  that  name?  " 

There  she  stood,  still  looking  at  the  sign,  when  a 
voice  suddenly  broke  in  on  her  reflections. 

"  It  is,  and  —  it  is  n't,"  uttered  the  voice  laugh 
ingly.  "  Yes  it  is,  —  why  it 's  Miss  Robinson  after 
all." 

Corrie  turned,  and  to  her  intense  astonishment, 
it  was  young  Mr.  Geikie,  hat  in  hand,  regarding  her 
with  merriment. 

"  Why,  where  did  you  come  from  ?  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  Where  did  you  drop  from  yourself?  "  he  retorted. 
"  Out  of  the  skies  ?  But  I  can  guess ;  you  're  hunt 
ing  for  your  missing  house."  Glancing  up  and  down 
the  block,  he  looked  back  at  her  drolly.  "  Found  it 
yet?" 

Corrie  shook  her  head  and  made  a  little  face  ex 
pressive  of  despair. 

"  Dear !  dear !  that 's  too  bad !  "  he  observed  sym 
pathetically,  his  eye  covertly  taking  in  Corrie's  trim 
change  from  the  dowdiness  of  the  night  before,  —  the 
soft  silkiness  of  her  hair  piled  up  beneath  her  hat, 
the  shapeliness  of  her  lithe  young  form  revealed  by 
the  closely  fitting  jacket.  But  if  the  first  look  were 
covert,  it  was  more  than  offset  by  his  eyes'  succeeding 
gleam  of  frank  admiration.  "  Sorry  you  have  n't 
had  more  luck,"  he  added  sincerely.  "  Now,  if  you 
could  only  tell  me  a  little  more  about  it,  maybe 

I "  He  broke  off  there,  his  eyes  filled  with  fun. 

79 


CORRIE  WHO? 

"  You  have  n't  told  me  yet  why  you  're  hunting  it," 
he  laughed,  "  or  I  'd  say  advertise.  There  's  nothing 
like  it.  Lost,"  he  laughed ;  "  Lost :  a  fairy  castle 
of  brick  with  green  blinds,  white  pillars  at  the  door, 
and  a  fan  light.  A  suitable  reward  will  be  offered, 
and  no  questions  asked." 

Corrie,  too,  after  a  moment,  laughed  with  him. 
"  Yes,"  she  answered ;  yet  there  was  a  hidden  gravity 
in  her  own  whimsical  words ;  "  it  was  a  fairy  palace, 
for  in  it  dwelt  an  ugly  duckling  who  was  never  al 
lowed  to  become  anything  else.  There  was  an  old 
ogre  who  lived  there,  besides ;  and,  all  of  a  sudden, 
the  castle  vanished  over  night.  Just  because  a 
Prince  Charming  with  brown  hair  came  riding  up  to 
the  rescue.  He  had  a  snub  nose,  too !  "  exclaimed 
Corrie.  "  There !  if  you  want  to  know !  " 

The  young  man  clucked  his  tongue  in  astonish 
ment.  "  My !  my !  all  that  happen  in  Greenwich  Vil 
lage,  and  never  get  into  the  newspapers?  When  did 
it  all  take  place  ?  " 

"  Ages  and  ages  ago,"  she  replied  with  a  light 
evasion  of  the  true  answer.  "  But  tell  me,"  she  in 
quired,  indicating  with  a  glance  the  long  row  of 
old-fashioned  dwellings,  "  are  these  the  houses  you 
meant?  I  don't  seem  to  find  mine  among  them." 

He  shook  his  head  promptly.  "  These  ?  Oh,  no, 
indeed!  Do  you  really  wish  to  see  a  house  such  as 
the  one  you  describe?  "  His  tone  and  manner  were 
distinctly  serious,  yet  if  Corrie  had  watched  him  nar 
rowly,  she  might  have  seen,  as  on  the  night  before, 
another  twinkle  dancing  in  the  corner  of  his  eye. 

80 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  BLINDS 

"  My !  I  wish  I  could  go  with  you !  Can't  you  put  it 
off  —  say  till  this  afternoon  ?  Or  to-morrow,  maybe ; 
I  could  go  up  to  Mrs.  Pinchin's  and  get  you." 

He  looked  at  her  pleadingly ;  but  Corrie  shook  her 
head,  her  eyes  filled  with  amusement.  "  Oh,  won't 
you  let  me  ?  "  he  asked  again.  "  I  can't  tell  you  how 
much  I  'd  like  it." 

"  So  would  I,  Mr.  Geikie.  I  'm  sure  I  would,  and 
then  "  —  a  telling  pause  —  "  I  'm  just  as  sure  Mrs. 
Pinchin  would  n't." 

The  young  man  boyishly  wrinkled  his  brow  with 
disappointment.  "  Well,  if  you  won't,  then  I  suppose 
I  '11  have  to  let  you  go  alone.  But  look  out,"  he 
cried,  his  face  breaking  anew  into  its  smile,  as  if  at  a 
hidden  joke ;  "  look  out  some  ogre  does  n't  jump  out 
of  that  house  and  grab  you ;  for  I  'm  sure  it 's  the 
same  one,  the  very  house,  or  one  as  much  like  it  as  two 
peas  in  a  pod.  Two  blocks  straight  away,  and  then 
turn  to  the  left.  You  '11  see  it  across  the  street,  No.  57 
Hedge  Street,  and  mind !  —  look  out  for  the  ogre !  " 

Corrie  shook  hands  with  him,  and  repeating  the 
number,  57  Hedge  Street,  left  him  standing  on 
the  corner.  Half-way  down  the  block  she  looked 
back,  and  he  was  still  waiting  there,  as  if  to  be  sure 
she  knew  the  way.  "  Oh ! "  she  murmured,  a  faint 
pink  stealing  into  her  cheeks ;  and  ignoring  the  hand 
waved  gaily  at  her,  she  hurried  onward  faster. 

At  the  second  block  she  turned  as  directed.     It 

was  another  of  those  quaint  little  streets,  a  remnant 

of  bygone,  old-fashioned  New  York,  and  now  fast 

going   to    seed.      On   the   corner   an   ugly,   modern 

6  81 


CORRIE  WHO? 

apartment  house  raised  its  yellow,  gingerbread  face, 
its  cheap  and  tawdry  decoration  a  strong  contrast  to 
the  simplicity  of  the  ancient  dwellings  under  its  lee. 
On  the  street  level  a  grocery  of  the  smaller  kind 
filled  the  air  with  the  reek  of  salted  fish  and  spice  and 
the  odor  of  wilted  fruit  and  vegetables  displayed  on 
the  racks  outside;  and  in  the  doorway  the  aproned 
grocer  and  two  women  with  shawls  over  their  heads 
haggled  stridently.  This  was  the  only  sign  of  life 
visible  in  the  block. 

Corrie  hurried  past,  and  the  instant  her  eyes  fell  on 
the  houses  opposite  she  uttered  a  murmur  of  aston 
ishment.  No.  57  Hedge  Street !  —  there  it  was ! 
And  No.  57,  too,  was  a  double  brick  house,  green 
shutters  at  the  windows,  pillars  at  the  door,  a  fan 
light  over  the  entrance,  and  a  thin,  gracefully 
wrought,  iron  spindle  railing  at  the  front.  Corrie, 
her  heart  thumping,  paused  and  stared.  It  was,  as 
young  Phil  Geikie  had  said,  as  alike  as  two  peas  in  the 
same  pod  —  an  exact  duplicate,  a  twin,  a  brother  to 
the  house  she  sought. 

"  No ! "  gasped  Corrie ;  it  was  the  missing  man 
sion  itself!  Could  there  be  a  mistake?  She  took 
her  eyes  from  it,  and  bit  her  lip  in  thought.  The 
house  she  hunted  had,  as  she  recalled,  stood  on  the 
uptown  side  of  the  street ;  this  was  on  the  downtown. 
But  it  had  been  a  long  while  ago ;  her  memory  must 
be  at  fault.  Again  she  looked  back  at  it.  The  house 
was  the  one  she  looked  for  —  the  one  she  had  so 
patiently  hunted  up  and  down  the  highways,  byways, 
streets,  and  avenues  of  the  town !  There  could  be  no 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  BLINDS 

error,  for  back  in  her  mind  its  image  had  always 
lived,  an  image  that  had  survived  with  other  memories 
of  the  long  ago  among  vague  details  of  her  early 
childhood.  Trembling,  eager,  emotional,  she  stood 
rooted  to  the  curb,  gazing  at  the  house,  a  flood  of 
recollections  pouring  back  into  her  head  at  the  sight 
of  the  old,  familiar  face.  Unlike  its  fellows  —  though 
nearly  all  were  still  trimly  kept  —  it  wore  an  added 
air  of  smartness,  a  neater,  distinguishing  tone  of  gen 
tility  above  the  middle  class.  A  gentleman's  house, 
one  instantly  would  have  said ;  and,  beside  its  dig 
nified  simpleness  the  rowdy,  swaggering  tenement  on 
the  corner  seemed  to  fade  away,  and  in  place  of  the 
two  shawled  drabs  haggling  with  the  aproned  grocer, 
one  might  have  looked  to  see  a  buck  in  strapped  pan 
taloons,  and  high,  furred  beaver  doing  the  elegant 
before  a  pair  of  hoopskirts  and  crinoline. 

For  a  moment  Corrie  gazed  at  its  windows,  almost 
expecting  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  either  Mrs.  Pinchin 
or  Miss  Maria,  or,  perhaps,  of  her  own  younger  self 
peering  forth  in  gingham  and  pigtails.  But  no  such 
vision  appeared;  no  ogre,  either,  darted  forth,  as  if 
out  of  a  nightmare,  to  drag  her  to  a  dark  upstairs 
room.  Alone  she  stood  and  looked,  watching,  de 
bating,  wondering.  Was  it  really,  really  and  with 
out  mistake,  the  house?  Now  that  she  had  found  it, 
she  must  make  sure  without  a  doubt. 

So  crossing  the  street,  after  this  moment's  hesi 
tation,  Corrie  walked  up  its  steps,  and,  with  her 
breath  coming  fast,  deliberately  rang  the  doorbell. 


83 


CHAPTER   V 

Mrs.  Pinchin's  homecoming,  and  the  resultant  misery  of  her 
poor  relation.  —  What  happened  when  Mrs.  Pinchin  found 
that  her  lock  had  been  tampered  with.  —  The  old-fashioned 
portrait  album,  and  its  picture  of  the  woman  with  the  dark, 
shadowy  eyes.  —  Mrs.  Pinchin's  accusation,  and  her  com 
panion's  unlooked-for  attitude.  —  Why  Corrie  had  been 
adopted.  —  Mrs.  Pinchin  figuratively  alights  from  her 
equally  figurative  high  horse.  —  Her  fear  of  a  stroke. 

THE  shades  had  been  drawn,  the  gas  already 
lighted  at  Mrs.  Pinchin's  when  that  lady  herself 
limped  painfully  up  the  street  and  climbed  the  front 
steps  of  her  house.  In  the  fading  light  of  the  dusk, 
one  saw  that  her  almost  turban-like  bonnet  was  tilted 
back  from  her  head,  and  that  the  brown  veil  hanging 
from  it  had  been  thrust  away  from  her  face  and  rolled 
up  into  a  thick,  disordered  fold.  Both  from  Mrs. 
Pinchin's  haggard  look  and  the  way  her  cane 
dragged  along  the  stonework  one  knew  her  to  be 
fatigued,  thoroughly  tired  out  —  an  unaccustomed 
weariness  in  one  of  her  self-indulgent  nature.  Nor, 
it  appeared,  had  Mrs.  Pinchin's  temper  become  im 
proved  by  either  her  fatigue  or  her  day  away  from 
home;  for  when  she  rang  her  doorbell,  she  had  no 
sooner  removed  her  finger  from  the  button  than  she 
put  it  back  again  and  held  it  there,  pressing  firmly. 
Also,  while  she  waited,  Mrs.  Pinchin  beat  a  lively 

84 


MRS.  PINCHIN'S  HOME-COMING 

tattoo  on  the  door  with  her  stick,  occasionally  paus 
ing  to  rattle  the  knob  energetically. 

It  was  Miss  Maria  who  answered,  at  last.  She 
pulled  open  the  door  timidly,  and  was  just  peering 
forth  to  see  who  announced  herself  with  such  vigor, 
when  a  hearty  push  nearly  sent  her  head  over  heels 
backward  into  the  hallway. 

"  Well !  "  snorted  Mrs.  Pinchin,  stalking  into  the 
light.  "  Is  this  the  way  my  house  is  run  during  my 
absence  ?  " 

Leaning  her  cane  against  the  hatstand,  she  dragged 
off  her  hat  and  veil  irritably,  and  tossed  them  down 
beside  her.  "  Well  ?  "  she  snapped  again,  and  both 
the  word  and  the  glare  that  went  with  it  voiced  an 
anxious  inquiry.  "  Well?  "  she  repeated. 

Miss  Maria,  after  closing  the  door  behind  Mrs. 
Pinchin,  had  turned  with  her  fingers  nervously  en 
twining  themselves.  She  seemed  not  to  have  heard 
the  other's  question.  "What  has  happened?"  she 
asked  rapidly,  one  of  her  hands  stealing  to  her 
breast  to  pluck  at  the  hem  of  her  waist.  "  Oh,  don't 
keep  me  waiting !  "  she  pleaded.  "  Have  you  no  news 
for  me?  " 

Mrs.  Pinchin  deliberately  went  on  unfastening  the 
hooks  of  her  wrap.  "  News  ?  Huh !  stop  looking  at 
me  like  that !  Don't  you  suppose  I  'd  tell  you  if  there 
was  any  ?  "  Her  manner  was  dark,  moody,  more  than 
peevish  —  not  merely  fretful  because  of  her  fatigue. 
"  There  's  nothing  to  tell  you.  There  's  no  change 
at  all." 

Again  Miss  Maria  twined  her  fingers  together 
85 


CORRIE  WHO? 

and  crept  a  little  closer.  "  Oh,  can't  you  tell  me 
anything  —  something  more  than  that  ? "  she 
pleaded,,  indeed  implored.  "  Are  you  keeping  any 
thing  away  from  me  ?  " 

At  once  Mrs.  Pinchin  turned  on  her  belligerently. 
"  You  see  here !  "  she  growled,  almost  grunted,  such 
was  the  thickness  of  her  voice ;  "  have  n't  I  told  you 
once  there  was  no  change?  What  more  do  you  want?" 
Ruffled  and  irate,  she  stripped  the  wrap  from  her 
shoulders  and  scowled  darkly;  her  thick  lips  pressed 
themselves  together,  working  vigorously.  It  was 
obvious,  whatever  the  cause  of  Miss  Maria's  sup- 
pliance,  whatever  the  reason  for  the  misery  in  her 
face,  that  Mrs.  Pinchin  felt  no  sympathy  for  it.  In 
stead,  it  seemed  only  to  add  irritation  to  the  already 
strong  emotions  under  which  she  herself  was  labor 
ing.  "  Where  's  that  girl  Corrie  ?  "  she  demanded 
suddenly.  "  What 's  she  been  about  all  day  ?  " 

It  was  no  very  good  account  that  Miss  Maria  had 
to  give  of  Mrs.  Pinchin's  paid  companion ;  or,  at 
least,  so  Mrs.  Pinchin  thought.  For  —  "  What !  "  she 
exclaimed,  her  eyes  gleaming  like  embers  beneath  her 
drooping  lids,  her  voice  filled  with  exasperation ; 
"  and  you  let  her  get  out,  after  what  I  told  you?  " 

Miss  Maria  tried  to  falter  explanations.  "  That 
man  —  him,"  she  began  hesitatingly ;  **  you  know 
the  one  "  —  this  meaningly  —  "  he  stood  at  the 
door  talking  to  her,  and  I  could  n't  get  down  and 
stdp  her." 

But  the  explanation,  so  far  from  appeasing  Mrs. 
Pinchin,  served  only  the  more  to  enrage  her. 

86 


MRS.  PINCHIN'S  HOME-COMING 

"  That 's  the  way  it  always  is !  "  she  cried  excitedly, 
her  flabby  j  owls  trembling  with  intensity ;  "  every 
thing  goes  to  sixes  and  sevens,  of  course,  unless  I  'm 
here  all  the  time.  Why  did  n't  you  stop  her,  I  say?  " 
Miss  Maria  twisted  her  fingers  nervously  together 
again.  "  Why,  how  could  I?  "  she  faltered  miser 
ably  ;  "  he  was  there,  and " 


A  snort  interrupted  her.     "  You  mean  to  say 


Oh,  fiddlesticks !  huh !  "  growled  Mrs.  Pinchin,  con 
temptuously.  "  Honestly,  Maria,  I  don't  believe  you 
have  the  spirit  of  a  gnat ! " 

She  began  lifting  up  the  hem  of  her  skirt  while 
she  spoke,  her  hand  fishing  into  an  inner,  hiddert 
pocket.  "  Oh,  well !  "  she  muttered  crossly,  pro 
ducing  a  bunch  of  keys  that  rattled  emphasis  to  her 
words,  "  I  suppose  I  '11  have  to  stand  the  burden  of 
everything  in  this  house,  won't  I  ?  "  Selecting  one 
of  the  keys,  she  stuck  it  into  the  door  of  the  room  at 
her  side.  "  Huh,  Maria ! "  she  had  begun  to  say 
again,  when  of  a  sudden  she  stopped,  and  glanced 
downward  curiously.  With  a  wrench  of  her  strong 
fingers,  she  unlocked  the  door,  shoved  it  open,  and 
then  pulled  out  the  key.  "  Who  's  been  in  this  room, 
to-day?  Who's  been  tampering  with  this  lock?" 
whispered  Mrs.  Pinchin  in  a  hissing  shrillness;  and, 
with  the  words,  the  leathery  hue  crept  from  her 
face  and  a  pasty  pallor  crept  into  it.  "  Tell  me ! " 
she  cried  furiously,  for  on  the  key  was  a  thick  smear 
of  some  waxy  substance ;  the  lock  seemed  clogged  with 
it,  too. 

Miss  Maria  gasped  at  her  stupidly.  "  Who 's 
87 


CORRIE  WHO? 

been  in  my  room  ?  "  repeated  Mrs.  Pinchin,  her  face 
terrible.  "  I  say  someone  has  been  here !  " 

But  nothing  had  been  disturbed;  the  room,  so 
far  as  she  could  see,  was  as  she  had  left  it  in  the 
morning.  She  turned  around  again  to  Miss  Maria, 
and  Miss  Maria  helplessly  shook  her  head.  "  I 
don't  know  —  unless  he  tried  —  that  man,  I  mean ! 
Maybe-  -" 

Miss  Pinchin  again  silenced  her  with  a  snort,  her 
teeth  bared  in  contempt.  "  Him?  —  you  idiot !  — 
you  ninny ! "  she  mocked  derisively.  "  I  suppose 
you  'd  accuse  him  of  anything.  Come  now,  get 
your  wits  about  you !  Who  's  been  working  at  this 
lock?" 

But  without  waiting  for  the  answer,  Mrs.  Pinchin 
straightened  up  with  a  jerk.  "  I  know  who  it  was !  " 
she  cried,  certainty  and  a  kind  of  questionable  tri 
umph  in  her  voice ;  "  it  was  that  girl.  Yes,  it  was ! 
Did  n't  I  warn  you  she  'd  be  up  to  some  such  trick, 
snooping  and  sneaking  around,  sticking  her  nose  into 
my  affairs."  In  her  anger  whatever  elegance  or  nicety 
of  speech  Mrs.  Pinchin  possessed  now  seemed  to  have 
left  her.  "  I  '11  fix  her,  though.  I  '11  know  if  she  's 
going  to  spy  on  me,"  she  grated  threateningly. 
"  You  see  about  dinner.  I  'm  going  up  to  settle  with 
her  now ! " 

Hopping  to  the  hatstand,  Mrs.  Pinchin  snatched 
up  her  cane,  and  thumped  away  up  the  stairs.  At 
every  step  she  pounded  the  floor  noisily,  and  at  every 
thump  she  tossed  her  head  on  her  shoulders.  "  The 
hussy !  I  '11  attend  to  her.  I  '11  see !  I  '11  see !  "  she 

88 


MRS.  PINCHIN'S  HOME-COMING 

cried  truculently,  dragging  herself  along  by  the 
handrail ;  and  so  nursing  her  wrath  and  in  a  mood  to 
free  her  mind  of  many  things,  Mrs.  Pinchin  climbed 
to  the  top  floor  where  she  unceremoniously  thrust 
open  the  door  of  Corrie's  bedchamber. 

"  You !  "  cried  Mrs.  Pinchin,  and  levelled  her  cane 
at  the  girl. 

Corrie,  standing  at  a  table  near  the  gas  bracket, 
was  slowly  turning  the  pages  of  a  book.  It  was  a  fat, 
leather  volume,  fitted  with  a  brass  clasp,  and  filled 
with  many  portraits  of  a  day  long  ago.  One  face 
among  them  appeared  again  and  again,  —  singly  or 
in  a  group  of  other  faces  —  a  young,  dark-eyed 
woman,  the  softness  of  whose  dark  eyes  and  quiet 
smile  still  lived  in  the  dim,  faded  prints.  Who  was 
she  ?  Corrie,  gazing  pensively  back  into  the  eyes,  was 
wondering  who  when  the  door  fell  open  at  Mrs. 
Pinchin's  noisy  entrance.  "  You !  "  cried  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin  ;  and  Corrie,  with  a  movement  inconceivably 
swift  and  secretive,  thrust  the  book  behind  her  and 
beneath  a  pile  of  other  books  that  lay  there  on  the 
table.  Pale,  disturbed,  yet  still  in  command  of  her 
self,  she  faced  both  the  cane  and  the  woman  who 
held  it ;  and  so  they  stood  —  one  white  and  still,  the 
other  shaken  with  wrath. 

"What  is  it  you  wish,  Mrs.  Pinchin?" 

The  cane  wagged  itself  at  Corrie  like  a  huge,  ac 
cusing  finger.  "Injured  innocence,  hey?"  she 
mocked  scornfully.  "  Come !  none  of  that !  I  know 
what  you  've  been  up  to ! "  she  snapped,  her  cane 
again  wagging  its  signal  of  righteous  rage.  "  What 


CORRIE  WHO? 

!do  you  mean  by  going  into  my  room  unasked?  —  like 
a  housebreaker,  too !  " 

"Your  room?  —  unasked?"  echoed  Corrie,  be- 
wilderedly.  "  I  went  into  your  room  to  get  your 
gown  to  sew  the  ruffles  on  it,  Mrs.  Pinchin." 

Mrs.  Pinchin  stamped  the  floor  with  both  cane 
and  foot  together.  "  Don't  you  try  to  evade  me  like 
that ! "  she  warned.  "  None  of  your  stories  now. 
You  know  where  I  mean.  You  've  been  snooping  in 
my  room  downstairs  —  the  room  where  I  keep  my 
desk.  I  want  to  know  the  reason  why." 

Corrie  drew  in  her  breath,  again  bewildered. 
"The  downstairs  room?  I  haven't  been  near  it. 
What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

Anyone  possessed  of  less  rage  than  Mrs.  Pinchin 
must  have  known  that  Corrie  spoke  the  truth.  But 
so  far  from  believing  her,  Mrs.  Pinchin  worked  her 
jaws  irately,  and  again  menaced  Corrie  with  her 
stick. 

"  How  dare  you  tell  me  such  a  story?  How  dare 
you?" 

"Stop!"  said  Corrie,  firmly.  "Stop,  Mrs. 
Pinchin!" 

Mrs.  Pinchin  stopped,  gaping  and  dumbfounded. 
It  was  the  first  time  in  a  long  while  that  anyone 
had  dictated  to  her ;  to  be  told  to  stop  —  to  be  de 
nied  even  the  slight  privilege  of  tongue-lashing  her 
paid  companion  —  must  have  seemed  incredible. 

"  Stop !  "  repeated  Corrie,  quietly ;  "  you  must  not 
speak  to  me  like  that." 

"Talk  to  you  —  like  what?"  stammered  Mrs. 
90 


"  Stop  !"  said  Come,  firmly.      "  Stop,  Mrs.  Pinchin  !  "     Mrs. 
Piiichin  stopped,  gaping  and  dumbfounded. 


MRS.  PINCHIN'S  HOME-COMING 

Pinchin,  foolishly,  now  thoroughly  nonplussed. 
"  Have  you  the  audacity ?  " 

The  girl  silenced  her  with  an  uplifted  hand.  "  Mrs. 
Pinchin,"  she  said,  with  a  simple  dignity  in  strong 
contrast  to  Mrs.  Pinchin's  warmth,  "  I  wish  you 
would  sit  down  for  a  moment.  I  have  something  I  'd 
like  to  say  to  you.  Sit  there,  won't  you?  "  she  asked, 
gravely  pointing  to  a  chair  at  the  other's  side. 

Gasping,  gaping,  still  dumbfounded  and  dazed, 
Mrs.  Pinchin  tried  for  a  moment  to  regain  her  wan 
ing  mastery.  But  the  scowl  failed  in  its  purpose, 
and  with  a  snort,  a  rumbling  mutter  of  wrath,  Mrs. 
Pinchin  sat,  or,  rather,  she  fell  limply,  on  the  chair 
that  Corrie  pointed  at.  "  I  think  I  shall  have  a 
stroke  —  another  stroke !  "  Mrs.  Pinchin  echoed  to 
herself.  "  This  girl  will  be  the  death  of  me !  " 

Corrie  stood  looking  down  at  her  reflectively, 
pausing  a  moment  while  Mrs.  Pinchin  worked  her 
jaws  up  and  down.  "  Mrs.  Pinchin,  you  adopted  me, 
did  n't  you  ?  "  she  asked  abruptly,  and  then  went  on, 
as  if  she  took  Mrs.  Pinchin's  glare  for  her  answer. 
"  You  adopted  me,  but  I  've  yet  to  learn  where  you 
got  me.  I  've  yet  to  learn,  too,  why  you  adopted  me, 
and  why  you  brought  me  up.  I  suppose  I  ought  to 
be  grateful  to  you,  and  perhaps,  if  I  only  knew  the 
truth,  I  might  be.  But  I  don't  know  the  truth,  Mrs. 
Pinchin.  I  don't  know  who  I  am,  or  even  what  I 
am  —  whether  I  have  a  name,  or  even  a  right  to  one. 
But  now  I  'm  going  to  find  out !  Will  you  tell  me, 
Mrs.  Pinchin?" 

During  these  few  words,  Mrs.  Pinchin  had  ceased 
91 


CORRIE  WHO? 

to  work  her  jaws,  though  she  still  frowned;  and 
presently,  putting  both  hands  over  the  stick,  she 
leaned  forward  and  forced  a  grin  to  her  lips.  It 
seemed  as  if  she  were  almost  amused. 

"  Oh !  "  cried  Corrie,  suddenly  thrusting  out  both 
hands.  "  Oh,  please,  please,  Mrs.  Pinchin,  won't  you 
tell  me  my  name  —  my  real  name  ?  " 

The  grin  grew  a  little  wider,  almost  sardonic. 
"Name?  How  often  must  you  be  told  it's 
Robinson?  " 

Corrie  drew  back  sadly.  "  No,"  she  murmured 
distressfully,  "  it  is  not  that  —  not  even  Robinson 
—  Brown  or  Smith  or  Robinson.  That  was  just  a 
cruel  untruth  of  yours.  I  've  at  least  learned  that." 

The  grin  died  suddenly,  replaced  by  a  look  almost 
of  consternation.  "What's  that  you're  saying?" 
demanded  Mrs.  Pinchin,  leaning  a  little  closer,  her 
eyes  turned  searchingly  on  the  girl's.  "  You  've 
learned?  Who  's  been  talking  to  you?  Who  's  told 
you  it  is  n't  Robinson  ?  " 

"  No  one  has  been  talking  to  me,  Mrs.  Pinchin. 
No  one  needed  to  tell  me.  I  know  it  myself." 

Mrs.  Pinchin  shook  herself.  Some  of  the  uneasi 
ness  died  out  of  her  face;  her  wrath  regained  itself 
instantly.  "  You  say  I  've  told  you  an  untruth ! 
How  dare  you !  "  she  repeated  bellicosely. 

But  the  girl  was  not  to  be  silenced  now.  "  It  was 
an  untruth,"  she  retorted  sorrowfully ;  "  and  you 
knew  it  to  be  untrue  when  you  told  it.  But  you 
know  who  I  am,  Mrs.  Pinchin,  I  am  very  sure; 
and  oh,  if  you  '11  only  tell  me,  I  '11  work  for  you  day 

92 


MRS.  PINCHIN'S  HOME-COMING 

and  night,  Mrs.  Pinchin  —  I  '11  stay  with  you  for 
ever  and  do  all  you  tell  me.  But  won't  you  please, 
please,  please  tell  me  who  I  am?  Just  that  —  and  I 
won't  ask  you  any  more." 

"  Who  you  are!  "  croaked  Mrs.  Pinchin,  lurching 
up  from  her  chair  and  shaking  her  stick  at  the 
pleader.  "  You  're  a  bold,  ungrateful  hussy  —  that 's 
what  you  are!  Your  name  is  Robinson,  and  I  got 
you  out  of  a  beggar's  hovel,  and  if  the  name 
does  n't  suit  you,"  she  cried,  all  in  a  breath,  "  you 
can  take  one  to  suit  yourself!  Who  you  are,  in 
deed  !  "  she  repeated.  "  Why,  for  half  what  you  Ve 
said  to  me,  any  other  woman  would  turn  you  out  of 
doors ! " 

Corrie  waited  for  the  outburst  to  end  itself. 
"  There  won't  be  any  need  to  turn  me  out,  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin,"  she  responded,  once  more  a  wistful  smile  on 
her  lips,  "  for  I  am  going  away  from  you  of  my  own 
wish,  —  without  waiting  for  you  to  dismiss  me. 
Shall  it  be  to-morrow,  or  —  to-night?  I  have  very 
little  to  pack." 

Perhaps  Mrs.  Pinchin  was  unready ;  perhaps  she 
had  not  expected  this.  Again  her  mouth  opened; 
in  her  amazement,  the  wrath  faded  from  her  face,  and 
with  every  indication  of  astonishment  and  dismay, 
Mrs.  Pinchin  fell  back  on  the  chair  again  and  gazed 
at  Corrie. 

"  Going?  Going  away?  "  she  repeated,  under  her 
breath,  and  in  all  the  many  contending  bursts  of  her 
passion,  changes  from  contempt  to  wrath,  amusement 
to  rage,  dismay  to  insulting  anger,  this  swift  turn 

93 


CORRIE  WHO? 

to  consternation  appeared  the  most  powerful  emo 
tion  of  all.  "  Going  away  ?  You  sha'  n't !  I  won't 
let  you.  You  sha'  n't  —  you  sha'  n't !  " 

. "  Yes,  Mrs.  Pinchin ;  though  you  adopted  me,  I 
am  at  least  my  own  master  now.  Unless  you  tell  me 
who  I  am,  I  shall  go  away." 

Mrs.  Pinchin  drew  a  heavy  breath.  She  took  a 
fresh  grip  on  her  cane  handle,  and,  averting  her  eyes, 
for  a  long  while  studied  the  threadbare  carpet  of  her 
companion's  room.  Corrie  waited  silently,  and  then 
when  Mrs.  Pinchin  spoke  again,  it  was  as  if  Mrs. 
Pinchin,  in  the  minute's  deliberation,  had  come  to  a 
quick  decision.  Leaning  a  little  closer,  she  noisily 
cleared  her  throat. 

"  My  dear,  dear  young  girl,"  she  began,  her  tone 
almost  placating,  and  halted  when  she  said  it.  The 
change  had  been  too  abrupt,  perhaps,  for,  clearing 
her  throat,  Mrs.  Pinchin  tried  again  in  a  less  endear 
ing  strain.  "  My  girl,"  said  she,  with  an  uneasy 
gentleness  in  her  voice,  "  you  must  n't  leave  me. 
I  could  n't  think  of  that.  Why ! "  she  exclaimed, 
boldly  attempting  a  note  of  pity ;  "  where  could  you 
go,  a  frail,  young  thing  like  you  ?  No ;  you  must  n't 
think  of  it.  You  must  stay  with  me,  dear.  Perhaps 
it 's  hard  for  you ;  for  I  know,  of  course,  I  'm  a  cross 
and  irritable  old  woman.  But  I  don't  mean  anything 
by  it.  I  —  I  —  why,  I  just  lose  my  temper,  that 's 
all.  Yes !  "  she  affirmed  eagerly ;  "  but  I  don't  mean 
anything  by  it.  Now  just  you  forget  I  've  been 
so  cross,  Corrie,  and  we  '11  try  to  get  along  better  in 
the  future.  Yes,  —  yes,  we  must.  And  you  must  n't 

94 


MRS.  PINCHIN'S  HOME-COMING 

work  so  hard  after  this,  either.  I  've  been  noticing, 
lately,  you  look  tired.  You  must  make  the  maids 
help  you.  Yes !  I  can't  have  you  tiring  yourself 
out.  So  now  it's  settled,  isn't  it?"  croaked  Mrs. 
Pinchin,  suddenly,  and  looked  at  her  with  the 
brightest,  most  hopeful  expression  in  the  world. 

Corrie  gazed  at  her  with  troubled  eyes.  "  I 
don't  know,  Mrs.  Pinchin.  Are  you  going  to  tell  me 
who  I  am?  " 

Mrs.  Pinchin's  lips  opened  swiftly  as  if  about  to 
say  something,  but  after  a  slight  contortion  of  her 
face,  she  emitted  only  a  dry,  chocking  gulp.  "  Oh, 
yes !  About  yourself,  of  course,  Corrie ! "  she  an 
swered,  the  spasm  in  her  throat  passing  away. 
"  Honestly,  now,  I  've  told  you  all  I  know.  Their 
name  was  Robinson;  and  they  lived  in  one  of  my 
houses.  They  moved  away  afterward,  and  —  oh, 
yes,  as  I  remember  now,  they  owed  me  a  lot  of  rent 
—  months  and  months  unpaid  rent.  I  've  forgotten 
how  much,  but  I  think  —  let  me  see  —  why,  it 
was  more  than  six  months,  all  that,  anyway.  No, 
you  've  no  idea  how  much  rent  people  have  gone 
away  without " 

"Which  house  did  they  live  in,  Mrs.  Pinchin?" 
asked  Corrie,  interrupting  the  tale  of  Mrs.  Pinchin's 
delinquent  tenants. 

"  Which  one?  "  echoed  Mrs.  Pinchin,  swiftly,  her 
eyes  darting  at  her.  "  Oh,  I  forgot.  No,  I  remember 
now.  It  was  torn  down,  years  and  years  ago  —  to 
make  way  for  a  —  for  a  —  why,  a  bake-shop !  "  she 
ended,  with  a  gulp. 

95 


CORRIE  WHO? 

Corrie  fastened  her  eyes  on  Mrs.  Pinchin  and  kept 
them  there.  "  You  remember  no  more,  then,  Mrs. 
Pinchin?"  she  asked  slowly;  "and  it  is  the  truth 
you  've  told  me?  "  she  went  on  hollowly.  Mrs.  Pinchin 
nodded  and  continued  to  nod,  vigorously  and  with 
growing  emphasis.  "  Very  well,  then,  Mrs.  Pinchin ; 
I  shall  stay  here  as  you  say.  For  I  think  some  day 
you  will  remember  more  about  it,  and  then,  of  course, 
you  will  tell  me.  Perhaps  it  will  be  when  you  are 
dying,  Mrs.  Pinchin,"  the  girl  added  remorselessly, 
ignoring  the  pallor  that  leaped  into  the  other  woman's 
face  at  the  words ;  "  on  your  death-bed,  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin.  Perhaps  you  will  tell  me  then." 

As  Mrs.  Pinchin  limped  down  the  stairs,  her  hand 
went  fluttering  to  her  throat.  She  gained  her  room, 
and  without  waiting  to  turn  up  the  lowered  light, 
hastened  to  the  stand  near  her  bed.  There  stood  the 
decanter  of  sherry,  and  filling  a  glass,  her  hand 
trembling  so  that  the  wine  spilled  over,  Mrs.  Pinchin 
gulped  it  down.  Immediately,  she  filled  a  second 
glass,  and  sipping  this  more  slowly,  her  nostrils  dis 
tended  and  her  thick  lips  smacking  loudly,  she  dully 
looked  around  her. 

"  Some  day  —  some  day,"  she  muttered  brokenly ; 
"  some  day  I  shall  really  have  another  stroke.  A  real 
stroke !  "  she  repeated  in  a  hollow  whisper ;  "  some 
day  I  shall  have  a  stroke.  I  must  be  more  careful 
of  myself ! " 


96 


CHAPTER   VI 

Relating  the  extraordinary  results  achieved  by  ringing  the  door 
bell  of  an  unknown  New  York  house.  —  Little  Mr.  Bigga- 
more  and  his  garden.  —  The  house  at  the  rear.  —  Mr.  Big- 
gamore's  peculiar  behavior  concerning  his  unknown 
neighbor.  —  Corrie's  dismay  and  hopelessness.  —  The  Miss 
ing  Dwelling  at  last!  —  Reappearance  of  Mrs.  Pinchin,  its 
significance,  and  Corrie's  justifiable  alarms. 


mere  act  of  ringing  a  doorbell,  when  one 
•*•  knows  who  lives  within,  is,  in  itself,  a  matter  of 
no  great  significance,  either  dramatically  or  other 
wise.  But  to  walk  up  to  an  unknown  portal,  espe 
cially  in  a  secluded  quarter  of  New  York  —  to  climb 
the  steps  and  to  jerk  the  bell  hanger,  even  though  it 
be  done  with  the  utmost  confidence  —  this,  one 
must  allow,  is  fraught  with  no  end  of  possibilities, 
and  notably  so,  if  one  has  no  very  substantial  rea 
sons  for  ringing. 

But  Corrie  has  been  left  standing  on  the  steps 
of  an  unknown  person's  house,  absorbed  in  this  very 
venture.  She  rang,  as  it  has  been  said,  and  at  the 
first  submerged  tinkle  in  the  dwelling's  depths,  she 
awoke  with  a  start  to  the  impulsive  absurdity  of  her 
position.  For  who  would  answer  the  bell,  and  what 
should  she  say  to  them  when  they  came?  All  in  a 
flutter,  Corrie  waited,  flushing  with  self-conscious 
ness,  and  tempted  a  dozen  times  to  take  to  her  heels 
in  flight. 

7  97 


CORRIE  WHO? 

It  was  a  broad  door  before  which  she  trembled  so 
uncertainly  —  a  door  portly,  well-kept,  and  dignified. 
Directly  at  the  center  of  its  panelling  a  highly  pol 
ished  letter  drop  gleamed  like  an  alderman's  watch 
chain ;  and  above  and  about  on  a  level  with  Corrie's 
head  an  antique  knocker  shaped  into  a  satyr's  head, 
with  a  garland  hanging  from  its  teeth,  handsomely 
stared  her  out  of  countenance,  grinning  as  if  aware 
of  her  confusion.  Corrie  was  still  frowning  back  at 
its  impudence  when  the  sound  of  footfalls  within 
warned  her  to  be  ready. 

The  door  opened,  and  a  face  cautiously  obtruded 
itself.  It  was  a  servant,  she  saw  to  her  relief,  some 
sort  of  an  ancient  retainer  wearing  neither  cap  nor 
apron,  and  with  the  New  York  servant's  early  morn 
ing  manner,  on  guard  against  unwelcome  intruders. 
But  a  glance  at  Corrie  seemed  to  reassure  her,  and 
she  threw  open  the  door  widely,  and  respectfully 
stood  at  one  side. 

"  Good  morning,"  said  Corrie ;  "  I  would  like  to 
see  your  mistress." 

The  aged  retainer's  air  of  caution  returned. 
"  Not  at  home,  ma'am.  She  ain't  either,  'cause  she  's 
just  gone  out." 

Corrie  wrinkled  her  brow  disappointedly.  "  Is 
any  other  member  of  the  family  at  home,  then?  "  she 
inquired,  after  a  thought. 

The  servant  eyed  Corrie  dubiously,  as  if  all  early 
morning  visitors  were  open  to  her  suspicion. 
"  Dunno,  ma'am ;  I  '11  go  ask  him,"  she  answered, 
with  unwitting  frankness,  and  with  another  cautious 

98 


MR.  BIGGAMORE  AND  HIS  GARDEN 

stare   grudgingly   invited   Corrie   into   the   hallway, 
and  left  her  standing  there. 

Corrie  waited,  her  eyes  flitting  about,  and  a  host 
of  memories  charging  through  her  mind.  It  was 
the  same  old  hall,  she  saw  excitedly,  the  same  stair 
way  she  had  known  of  old,  though  the  decorations 
and  furnishings  had  suffered  a  change  since  Mrs. 
Pinchin's  reign.  A  thorough  change,  too,  one  would 
have  said;  for  in  place  of  a  florid  array  of  bric-a- 
brac  and  the  flashy  choice  Mrs.  Pinchin  made  of  up 
holstery,  hangings,  and  pictures,  Corrie  got  a 
glimpse  of  a  quiet  and  dignified  interior.  On  the 
wall  beside  her,  for  instance,  a  small,  exquisite  etch 
ing,  a  fragment  like  the  chip  from  a  gem,  replaced 
the  still  life  of  fruit  Corrie  remembered;  opposite 
it  hung  another,  equally  small  and  choice,  and  lining 
the  stairway  as  far  up  as  she  could  see,  the  rising 
wall  was  filled  with  rare  old  copper  prints,  rarely 
chosen,  a  few  old  time  woodcuts,  and  here  and  there 
a  touch  of  color,  quaintly  antique.  A  tall  clock, 
also  genuinely  old,  ticked  solemnly  by  the  wall  op 
posite  the  newel  post,  and  beyond  it  a  divan  with 
claw  feet  and  a  deep,  comfortable  back  sprawled 
easefully,  the  very  look  of  it  cheerfully  inviting 
repose.  Corrie  took  note  of  this  and  was  trying 
to  peep  further,  when  a  labored  breathing  on 
the  basement  stairs  warned  her  of  the  servant's 
return. 

"  Please,  ma'am,  he  says  if  you  ain't  a  book  agent 
or  anything,  you  are  to  come  down.  Mr.  Bigga- 
more  's  in  the  garden." 

99 


CORRIE  WHO? 

"  In  the  garden  ?  —  oh,  thank  you,"  murmured 
Corrie,  nodding.  She  had  started  on  the  way  uncon 
sciously,  when  the  servant's  exclamation  of  astonish 
ment  stopped  her.  "  Would  n't  you  be  letting  me 
show  you  the  way,  ma'am?  " 

It  was  hardly  necessary,  but  realizing  the  home  was 
no  longer  hers,  Corrie  let  the  servant  precede  her. 
But  unguided,  alone,  blindfolded,  or  in  the  dark,  she 
could  have  traveled  that  passage  surely  and  with  cer 
tainty,  knowing  every  inch  of  the  way  from  the  hall 
way  to  the  garden  at  the  rear. 

Their  way  led  by  the  dining  room  and  through  the 
tall  French  windows  to  the  porch  outside.  Corrie, 
as  she  went  along,  took  in  the  old,  familiar  room,  its 
high  walls,  its  open  fireplace  and  marble  mantel,  its 
dark  woodwork  and  the  queer,  old-fashioned  bronze 
gas  brackets  and  chandelier.  But  now  it  all  wore  a 
changed  habit,  a  newer  look  of  distinction ;  its  ma 
hogany  table,  richly  polished  and  as  deep  in  tone  as 
the  breast  of  a  forest  pool;  its  sideboard  and  china 
closets,  its  Sheraton  chairs,  its  plate  and  ornaments 
of  Delft,  and,  on  the  walls,  its  ancestral  portraits 
in  oil  all  harmonizing  closely  with  the  prim,  old- 
fashioned  character  of  the  house. 

"  Mind  the  step,  ma'am,"  cautioned  the  servant, 
and  Corrie  nodded  again,  as  she  walked  out  to  the 
porch  beyond.  For  how  often,  as  a  child,  had  she 
crossed  that  step,  skipped  along  the  high  veranda, 
and  so  gone  on  into  the  garden  that  lay  there  below ! 
Her  eyes  sparkled,  a  lively  color  mounted  her  cheeks, 
and  she  lived  as  a  child  again,  animated  and  eager. 

100 


MR.   BIGGAMORE  AND  HIS  GARDEN 

So  Mr.  Biggamore  saw  her  as  she  came  down  the 
steps  toward  him. 

He,  too,  harmonized  with  this  retreat  of  his,  a  per 
son  as  quaintly  old-fashioned  as  one  would  expect  to 
find  in  these  quaint,  old-fashioned  surroundings.  A 
pair  of  large,  steel-rimmed  spectacles  balanced  them 
selves  on  the  tip  of  Mr.  Biggamore's  nose,  and  in  his 
long-tailed  coat,  his  flapping  wide-awake  and  broad, 
thick,  white  scarf,  fastened  with  a  coral  pin,  he  looked 
not  unlike  some  little  old  gentleman  just  stepped  out 
of  the  pages  of  an  early  century  almanac. 

But  for  one  with  a  name  so  suggestively  stalwart 
and  ample,  Mr.  Biggamore  somehow  fell  short  of  the 
expectations,  being  neither  burly  nor  majestic,  but, 
on  the  other  hand,  rather  more  chubby  than  anything 
else,  and  almost  boyish  in  the  rotundity  of  his  figure. 
A  wisp  of  hair  hung  over  his  right  brow,  and  in  mo 
ments  of  meditation,  or  when  he  was  interested  or  ex 
cited  or  otherwise  moved,  Mr.  Biggamore  reached  for 
it,  and  slowly  twined  it  about  his  finger,  his  head 
perked  at  one  side  during  the  process,  and  his  eyes, 
like  a  bright  little  bird's,  peering  out  intently  from 
under  his  hand. 

Resting  on  his  shovel,  he  looked  up  at  the  girlish 
visitor  with  a  very  sudden  astonishment.  "  Why  — 
why  — my  dear  young  lady ! "  he  exclaimed,  in 
quick  apology.  "  My  servant  told  me  she  thought  — 
Why,  let  me  hand  you  to  the  drawing-room,  won't 
you?" 

Corrie  thanked  him  shyly,  and  begged  they  might 
stay  where  they  were.  "  You  must  be  very  busy,  Mr. 

101 


CORRIE  WHO? 

Biggamore.  Besides,  I  shall  trouble  you  only  a 
moment." 

Mr.  Biggamore  beamed  rotundly.  "  Trouble  ?  No 
trouble  at  all,  I  assure  you.  Please  be  seated. 
Greatest  pleasure  in  the  world." 

He  bowed  her  to  a  chair  placed  directly  in  the  center 
of  the  garden,  a  wide-armed,  comfortable,  deep- 
backed,  rustic  garden  seat  set  evidently  where  Mr. 
Biggamore  could  pore  upon  his  cheerful  little  domain. 
For  it  was  a  queer,  quaint  little  garden,  too,  in  keep 
ing  with  everything  else.  On  all  sides  the  fenced 
area  of  backyard  held  a  bewildering  oasis  of  its 
own,  a  massed  square  of  color  filled  with  flowering 
bulbs  —  tulips,  snowdrops,  hyacinths,  and  daffodils 
blooming  exotically  in  the  heart  of  the  city's  desert 
of  ugly  brick  and  stone.  From  a  further  corner  a 
wistaria  vine  sprang  upward  to  a  high  lattice  car 
ried  above  the  fence,  and  with  this  screen  as  a  back 
ground  and  the  amazing  flame  of  color  underfoot,  one 
almost  forgot  the  crowding  houses  so  near  at  hand, 
the  city's  crowded  life,  and,  for  the  moment,  dreamt 
it  to  be  the  quiet  of  a  far-away,  country  nook. 

"  Pleasure,  I  assure  you !  Just  pottering ;  that 's 
all.  Miss  —  er,  Miss  —  Miss  Delevan,  you  said, 
was  n't  it?" 

Corrie  hadn't  said  at  all,  as  she  laughingly  an 
swered.  "  I  'm  Miss  Robinson,  however,  Mr.  Bigga 
more —  Miss  Corrie  Robinson,"  she  added,  and 
at  her  frank  amusement  Mr.  Biggamore,  too,  had  to 
laugh,  or,  rather,  he  exploded  into  merriment,  his 
chubby  form  shaking  gleefully.  "  Well  —  oh,  yes ! 

102 


MR.  BIGGAMORE  AND  HIS  GARDEN 

Miss  Robinson  —  Robinson,  that 's  it.  Not  Delevan 
in  the  least.  Merely  tried  Delevan  as  a  graceful  way 
of  finding  out."  He  peeped  again  over  his  spectacles 
and  beamed  at  her,  a  queer,  benevolent  little  person, 
so  cheery  and  genial  and  full  of  evident  kindliness 
that  Corrie  felt  assured  she  could  trust  herself  to  him. 
"  Well  now,  my  young  lady,"  he  inquired,  curling  his 
forelock  reflectively,  "  how  can  I  have  the  honor  of 
serving  you?  " 

Corrie  came  down  to  the  moment  with  a  start. 
How  ?  Why,  she  hardly  knew.  Mr.  Biggamore,  hav 
ing  twirled  his  wisp  of  forelock  a  while,  took  off 
his  spectacles  and  carefully  wiped  them  with  a  large, 
flowered  silk  handkerchief,  which  he  extracted  with  a 
flourish  from  his  coat-tails.  Afterward  he  adjusted 
the  glasses  on  the  endmost  tip  of  his  nose,  and,  having 
laid  hold  of  his  forelock  again,  once  more  beamed  at 
her  encouragingly,  nodding  his  head  the  while  and 
teetering  to  and  fro  with  his  other  hand  behind  him. 

"Why,"  exclaimed  Corrie,  diffidently,  "I  don't 
just  know.  In  the  beginning " 

"In  the  beginning?  Excellent!"  observed  Mr. 
Biggamore,  promptly.  "  No  place  like  the  beginning 
to  begin.  Let 's  begin  there.  In  the  beginning " 

"  In  the  beginning,  then,  Mr.  Biggamore,"  an 
swered  Corrie,  smilingly  taking  her  cue,  "  I  'm  look 
ing  for  some  people  who  once  lived  here.  I  mean  in 
this,  neighborhood,"  she  added  cautiously,  resolved 
not  to  commit  herself  until  she  learned  just  what  he 
knew  of  Mrs.  Pinchin.  A  misstep  might  cost  much 
now;  for  what  would  Mrs.  Pinchin  do  were  she  to 

103 


CORRIE  WHO? 

learn  that  Corrie,  indeed,  was  snooping  —  this 
snooping  she  disliked  so  much.  "  And  if  you  will  tell 
me  who  owns  this  house,"  she  went  on  after  the  mo 
ment's  thought,  "  it  would  be  a  great  help  to  me.  I 
think  it 's  the  one  I  'm  looking  for." 

"  Who  owns  it? "  Mr.  Biggamore  smiled  be 
nignly.  "  Easiest  thing  in  the  world  to  tell  you,  my 
young  lady.  7  own  it,  —  house,  grounds,  garden,  — 
everything!  No.  57  Hedge  Street;  P.  Biggamore, 
owner." 

Corrie  lacked  a  clear  idea  whether  he  was  poking 
fun  at  her  or  not.  But  encouraged  by  his  twinkling 
eyes  and  his  general  aspect  of  chubby  cheerfulness, 
she  went  on  easily.  "  Oh,  yes  —  and  I  think  you 
bought  it  from  a  Mrs.  Pinchin,  did  n't  you  ?  "  she 
suggested,  in  an  off-hand  tone,  as  if  carelessly  aware 
of  the  fact.  "  That  was  the  person's  name,  if  I  am 
right?" 

Mr.  Biggamore  shook  his  head.  "  Pinchin  ?  Pin- 
chin?  "  he  repeated,  slowly  twisting  his  forelock  until 
it  stood  out  from  his  head  like  a  pigtail.  "  Don't 
seem  to  recall  the  name,  somehow.  But  I  've  no  head 
for  names,  anyway.  No  —  don't  seem  to  remember 
it." 

Corrie  looked  around  the  garden,  affecting  to  gaze 
at  the  massed  display  of  color  with  a  detached  and 
purely  casual  interest.  "  Are  n't  your  flowers  beau 
tiful  !  But  Mrs.  Pinchin  —  perhaps  she  lived  here 
before  you,  Mr.  Biggamore.  Will  you  tell  me  how 
long  you  've  had  the  house  ?  " 

He  looked  up  at  the  sky  thoughtfully.  "  Let  me 
104 


MR.   BIGGAMORE  AND   HIS  GARDEN 

see  —  how  long  ?  Hm-m-mh !  I  '11  have  to  fig 
ure.  No  head  for  names,  but  pretty  good  at  arith 
metic."  Mr.  Biggamore  took  a  fresh  clutch  at  his 
forelock  and  calculated  mentally.  "Been  here?  — 
why,  fourteen  years,  two  months,  and  a  few  days  — 
five  or  six,  I  should  say.  Is  that  close  enough?  " 

An  exclamation  sprang  to  Corrie's  lips,  but  she 
managed  to  repress  it.  Fourteen  years?  It  had 
been  just  that  long  ago  when  Mrs.  Pin  chin  made  her 
night's  flitting  from  the  house.  "  Ah,  yes ;  so  I 
thought,"  she  assented,  still  with  the  same  studious 
unconcern.  "  The  lady  I  was  looking  for  moved  from 
here  about  that  time.  But  then,  of  course,"  she 
added,  smiling  politely,  "  if  you  don't  remember  her, 
there 's  no  need  of  my  bothering  you  about  it." 
Smiling  again,  she  made  a  movement  as  if  to  rise  in 
departure,  though  she  had  no  intention,  yet,  of  giv 
ing  up  so  easily.  She  was  too  certain  she  had  found 
the  house,  for  one  reason. 

Mr.  Biggamore  dropped  his  hand  long  enough 
from  his  stray  lock  to  wring  his  nose  dubiously. 
"  Must  be  a  mistake  somewhere,"  he  said  musingly. 
"  This  house  belonged  to  an  estate,  you  see.  Pin- 
chin  ?  Pinchin  ?  "  he  echoed  to  himself,  and  again 
shook  his  head.  "  Still  don't  seem  to  recall  that 
name,"  he  repeated,  looking  a  little  troubled.  "  Be 
gins  to  sound  a  little  familiar,  too,  now  that  I  think 
it  over.  However,  I  'm  sure  the  house  never  belonged 
to  your  friend.  Must  be  some  other  house  like  this. 
The  estate  built  three  or  four  just  alike." 

Corrie  arose  to  her  feet,  a  smile  on  her  face,  but 
105 


CORRIE  WHO? 

in  her  heart  nothing  akin  either  to  a  smile  or  any 
other  trait  of  cheerfulness.  "  I  'm  very  grateful  to 
you  for  your  kindness,  Mr.  Biggamore,"  she  said 
pleasantly,  but  somehow,  despite  her  trying,  her 
lip  trembled  a  little ;  "  thank  you  for  giving  me  so 
much  of  your  time." 

He  peered  at  her  quickly.  "  But  perhaps  there  's 
some  way  I  could  aid  you? "  he  suggested  cour 
teously  ;  "  do  I  understand  you  are  sure  about  the 
house,  or,"  he  inquired  hesitatingly,  "  or  —  why  — 
is  it  just  the  description  you  have?  If  that's  the 
case,  I  know  this  neighborhood  from  a  to  z,  my 
young  lady,  —  and  besides,"  he  added  brightly, 
and  grinned ;  "  why  —  hm— m— mh !  —  why,  we  make 
houses  right  here  on  the  premises  —  yes,  we  do !  "  and 
with  a  laugh  explained  himself.  "  My  young  nephew 
is  an  architect  —  a  pretty  good  one,  too,  though 
I  say  it  myself  that  perhaps  should  n't.  Oh,  yes !  — 
lots  of  houses  upstairs.  All  drawn  out  on  paper. 
Now  if  you  '11  tell  me  what  your  house  looks  like?  " 

Corrie  told  him,  making  a  wry  little  mouth  over 
the  parrot-like  repetition,  the  glibly-repeated  de 
tail  of  green  blinds,  white  pillars,  fan  light,  and 
spindle  railing.  And  at  the  description  Mr.  Bigga 
more  cocked  up  his  ear  alertly,  and  resumed  his  tug 
ging  at  his  forelock. 

"  Why !  sure  enough ;  that 's  this  very  house  of 
mine.  You  've  got  it  down  to  a  dot !  "  he  cried,  nod 
ding  with  interest.  "  And  by  the  same  token,  too," 
he  added  energetically,  "  it  fits  to  a  dot  all  the  other 
houses  I  spoke  about  —  the  ones  built  by  that  estate, 

106 


MR.  BIGGAMORE  AND  HIS  GARDEN 

I  mean.  Why,  there  's  one  right  around  the  corner  — 
Right  there !  "  he  cried  and  pointed  with  a  wave  of 
his  hand  to  the  house  behind  them. 

But  the  instant  the  words  left  him  he  glanced  sud 
denly  at  Corrie,  with  a  look  of  nervously  awakened  in 
terest  that  seemed  almost  pointed.  "  Pinchin  ?  Pin- 
chin?  "  he  echoed  once  more,  and  then  let  his  eyes 
travel  slowly  toward  the  house  he  had  pointed  out; 
"  are  you  sure  the  name  was  Pinchin  ?  " 

Quite  sure;  Corrie  repeated  it,  and  even  went  to 
the  trouble  of  slowly  spelling  it.  "  It 's  rather  im 
portant,  you  see,  Mr.  Biggamore,  that  I  find  out 
about  her.  Otherwise  I  would  n't  have  troubled  you. 
She  and  my  family  were  acquainted." 

Mr.  Biggamore  appeared  not  to  be  listening  to  her. 
"  No,"  he  said  dully,  as  if  musing  aloud ;  "  I  don't 
think  she  lived  in  that  house,  either.  I  think  not; 
but  it  might  be  worth  trying  to  find  out." 

Corrie  looked  up  over  the  tangle  of  wistaria  toward 
the  windowed  rear  wall  behind  them.  "  Who  lives 
there  now?  "  she  asked  incuriously,  and  really  without 
interest  now,  since  she  had  about  made  up  her  mind 
nothing  was  to  be  learned  by  questioning  him  any 
more.  Corrie  was  little  prepared  for  the  consequence 
of  that  idle  question,  idly  asked. 

"  In  that  house,  ma'am !  Hmph! "  Mr.  Bigga 
more  shot  a  vehement  look  at  her,  and  a  still  more 
vehement  look  at  the  house.  Both  hands  were  thrust 
behind  him,  and  he  angrily  tossed  his  coat-tails.  "  A 
perfect  stranger,  ma'am.  ...  A  perfect  stranger! 
Do  I  make  myself  clear  to  you?"  Staring  at  her 

107 


CORRIE  WHO? 

fixedly,  he  wrinkled  up  his  brow  into  a  scowl,  dragged 
out  his  handkerchief,  and  wrung  an  indignant  trum 
pet  blast  from  his  nose.  "  An  entire  stranger  to  me, 
ma'am !  "  he  repeated  indignantly. 

"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon !  "  exclaimed  Corrie,  and 
Mr.  Biggamore  looked  at  her  uncomfortably. 

"  No  fault  of  yours,  my  dear  young  lady.  Man  's 
a  perfect  stranger,  I  assure  you.  No  call  for  an 
apology  —  not  in  the  least !  " 

Still  snorting  under  his  breath,  Mr.  Biggamore 
led  the  astonished  girl  back  through  the  French  win 
dows,  the  dining  room,  and  the  hall,  and  gravely 
bowed  her  out.  It  was  a  curious  scene,  a  queer  end 
ing  to  so  much  geniality  and  quaint,  old-mannered 
kindness ;  and  a  regretful  ending,  too.  But  as  Cor 
rie  looked  back  from  the  sidewalk,  Mr.  Biggamore 
suddenly  recovered  his  amiability,  and  bobbed  to  her 
energetically.  "  If  you  can't  find  your  house,"  he 
chirped  pleasantly,  "  come  back  and  let  me  know. 
Maybe  I  may  recall  where  I  've  heard  the  name  — 
Pinchin?  —  was  n't  that  it?  " 

Corrie  thanked  him  smilingly,  and  then  the  door 
closed  behind  her. 

Which  way  now?  Must  it  be  back  to  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin's,  once  more  bearing  the  flag  of  defeat?  Dully 
hopeless,  she  walked  away  from  the  scene  of  disap 
pointment  and  failure,  and  the  sting  of  it  would  have 
been  unbearable,  had  she  not  always  felt  that  hope 
lessness.  No,  she  would  never  find  out  —  never 
lay  her  hand  on  any  hint  of  her  identity !  It  seemed 
not  even  worth  the  while  to  walk  around  the  corner  — 

108 


MR.  BIGGAMORE  AND  HIS  GARDEN 

not  worth  the  waste  of  time  to  look  at  that  other 
house,  the  one  behind  Mr.  Biggamore's.  The  house 
there  meant  only  another  disappointment  —  and 
why  add  another  pang?  But  the  uncertainty! 

Quickening  her  steps,  the  girl  turned  the  corner 
and  entered  the  street  beyond. 

It  was  another  quiet  byway,  just  such  a  street  as 
the  one  she  just  had  quit.  It,  too,  seemed  familiar  — 
curiously  enough,  even  more  familiar.  Hurriedly 
she  crossed  over  to  the  opposite  curb  and  looked  up 
at  the  lamp  post.  "  Bend  Street,'*  she  read,  and  re 
peated  it :  "  Bend  Street  —  Bend  —  Bend !  "  Then 
like  a  searching  flash  of  light,  the  name  touched  back 
upon  some  cell  of  recollection,  and  flooded  every 
nook  and  cranny  of  her  mind.  Bend  Street!  Corrie 
knew  that  name !  It  returned  to  her,  shouting  in  the 
dimmed  recesses  of  her  brain,  its  remembrance  cried 
up  to  her  from  the  forgotten  depths  of  the  past. 
Swiftly,  she  walked  along.  Bend  Street!  —  even 
the  number  now  —  No.  66  Bend  Street  —  the  right 
house  on  the  right  side  of  the  way!  No  mistake 
now !  There  it  was  —  green  blinds,  pillars,  fan  light, 
spindle  railing  and  all  —  all  as  she  had  expected  to 
find  them.  She  halted,  staring  up  at  it  agape,  and 
was  just  ready  to  march  up  and  ring  its  bell,  when, 
all  at  once,  a  sharp  cry  escaped  her,  and  she  shrank 
back  in  blank  dismay. 

For  coming  down  the  steps  of  No.  66  Bend  Street 
was  a  woman,  her  stick  thwacking  loudly  on  the  pave 
ment,  and  the  woman  was  Mrs.  Pinchin  herself! 


109 


CHAPTER     VII 

Showing  how  any  kind  of  conscience,  even  though  pure,  may 
make  cowards  of  the  best  of  us.  —  Corrie's  interrupted  fliglit. 

—  Her  return  to  Mr.  Biggamore's  and  the  uncomfortable 
result  of  it.  —  The  mystery  of  the  back-door  neighbor.  — 
Mr.  Biggamore's  sister  and  her  suspicions  against  her  caller. 

—  The  question  about  the  boy  with  the  bread  and  jam.  — 
Mrs.  Pinchin's  identity  and  the  rebuff  courteous.  —  Corrie's 
hurt  dismay.  —  Enter  Philip  Geikie,  astonished. 

TT^LIGHT  was  Corrie's  first  impulse.  She  saw  that 
••-  massive  figure  limping  down  the  steps,  the  eyes 
staring  straight  ahead,  and  the  jaw  and  heavy  face 
set  rigidly.  Whether  Mrs.  Pinchin  had  seen  her  re 
mained  a  question ;  but  when  the  girl  turned  the 
corner  with  a  flying  look  backward,  Mrs.  Pinchin  had 
gone  the  other  way,  and  with  the  best  speed  possible, 
her  stick  sounding  smartly  on  the  pavement,  was 
making  off  into  the  distance.  Whither  she  was  bound 
was  also  a  question,  though  Corrie  had  no  thought  of 
that  now,  but  rather,  why  Mrs.  Pinchin  had  not  in 
stantly  pursued  her.  Had  she  escaped  after  all? 
The  thing  to  do  now  was  to  get  home,  and  to  get 
home  as  quickly  as  possible.  So,  after  another  glance 
at  the  retreating  figure,  Corrie  set  out  on  the  way  as 
fast  as  her  feet  could  carry  her. 

But  what  did  it  mean?  What  brought  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin  back  to  the  scene  of  former  days?  Who  lived 
in  that  house  now,  and  why  had  she  gone  there  ?  Still 

110 


THE  REBUFF  COURTEOUS 

dazed,  dismayed,  overwrought  by  the  mystery,  Cor- 
rie  hazarded  guess  after  guess,  not  one  of  which, 
when  momentarily  considered,  seemed  to  be  in  the 
least  way  plausible.  But  that  Mrs.  Pinchin's  early 
morning  activity  bore  a  vital  part  in  the  growing 
mystery,  Corrie  felt  certain  beyond  the  smallest 
shadow  of  a  doubt.  And  there  were  these  other 
doings,  too,  —  the  conflict  with  Maria,  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin's  departure  in  the  carriage,  and  the  bundle  she 
took  with  her.  What,  for  instance,  was  in  the  bundle, 
and  why  had  Mrs.  Pinchin  so  burdened  herself  when 
there  was  Corrie  who  was  always  called  on  to  fetch 
and  carry?  She  shook  her  head,  her  wits  a  hopeless 
tangle. 

But  as  Corrie  hurried  back  toward  Eighth  Street 
and  the  Elevated,  a  sudden  thought  struck  her.  Why 
wait  to  clear  up  the  tangle  ?  Why  delay  ?  For  when 
would  she  get  another  chance  as  good?  Mrs.  Pinchin 
was  not  one  to  overlook  another's  misdeeds ;  much 
less  would  she  overlook  so  outrageous  a  fault  as  dis 
obedience  to  her  orders ;  and  had  not  Corrie  wilfully 
disobeyed  in  slipping  out  of  the  house?  Or  what,  too, 
if  Mrs.  Pinchin  had  seen  Corrie  prowling  the  streets 
in  her  wake?  If  she  had,  many  days  might  pass 
before  Corrie  could  prowl  again  —  many  days  before 
a  chance  might  come  to  find  who  lived  in  that  house. 
No  —  if  anything  were  to  be  done,  it  must  be  done 
now;  nothing  was  to  be  gained  by  delay.  Armed 
with  her  resolution,  she  turned  on  her  heel,  and 
swiftly  retraced  her  steps  to  Bend  Street. 

Mrs.  Pinchin  had  disappeared ;  the  street  lay  quiet 
111 


CORRIE  WHO? 

and  solitary.  Beyond,  the  missing  mansion  raised 
its  front,  now  found  and  more  fully  fledged  than 
ever  in  its  bewildering  garb  of  mystery.  From  the 
corner  she  could  see  it  clearly,  its  closed  door  blankly 
secretive,  its  windows  with  their  shades  closely 
drawn,  its  discreet  and  impressive  quiet,  as  if  within 
skulked  the  untold  and  the  unknown.  Or  so  Corrie 
thought,  after  a  momentary  look ;  and  rounding  the 
corner  again,  she  returned  to  Mr.  Biggamore's.  He 
must  tell  her  who  lived  in  that  house,  for  she  dared 
not  ask  at  the  house  itself,  and  that  he  knew  she  was 
certain. 

Her  emotions,  when  she  drew  near  Mr.  Bigga 
more's,  were  even  more  confused  than  before.  Won 
der,  dismay,  even  a  little  shadowy  sense  of  fear 
oppressed  her;  for  to  what  troubles,  even  perils, 
would  the  next  move  commit  her  ?  She  knew  definitely, 
though  with  no  clear  grasp  of  the  facts,  that  the 
threads  of  this  tangled  skein  stretched  all  about  her 
—  from  Mrs.  Pinchin  herself,  back  through  the 
strange  mansion  in  the  adjoining  street,  and  from 
there  further  onward,  here  to  this  queer  little  gentle 
man  mured  in  his  quaint  retreat.  But  nothing  ven 
tured,  nothing  won !  Summoning  all  her  courage,  she 
laid  her  hand  to  the  bell  hanger  and  rang  vigorously. 

The  door  opened  almost  instantly,  the  servant 
holding  it  back  to  let  out  a  young  girl  of  about  Cor- 
rie's  own  age.  "  And  say  I  '11  be  back  later,  won't 
you,"  she  was  saying  to  the  servant.  "  You  can  tell 
Higgs  when  he  comes  to  drive  to  my  aunt's."  "  Yes, 
Miss  Virgie,"  answered  the  elderly  servant ;  and  the 

112 


THE  REBUFF  COURTEOUS 

girl  seeing  Corrie  coming  up  the  steps,  glanced  at 
her,  and  smiling  pleasantly,  went  on  her  way  down 
the  street. 

A  very  pretty  girl,  thought  Corrie,  and  trim  and 
smart  in  her  quiet  street  dress.  Very  attractive,  too, 
with  her  frank  smile.  Corrie  looked  back  from  her  to 
the  servant.  "  Will  you  ask  Mr.  Biggamore  whether 
I  may  see  him  again?  "  she  inquired;  and  this  time, 
as  if  assured  the  early  morning  visitor  had  no  ul 
terior  designs  on  the  house,  the  servant  showed  her 
courteously  into  the  drawing-room.  There  she  found 
a  seat  on  an  old-rose-colored  damask  sofa  under  the 
portrait  of  a  youthful  Mr.  Biggamore,  and  presently 
he  appeared  in  person. 

To  say  that  Mr.  Biggamore  was  astonished  but 
indefinitely  expresses  it.  "  Why,  my  dear  young 
lady !  "  he  ej  aculated.  "  Not  back  again  so  soon !  "  he 
piped,  and  could  hardly  restrain  his  curiosity. 
"  Well !  well !  and  what  is  it  now?  " 

Corrie  looked  at  him  perplexedly,  hardly  knowing 
how  to  go  at  it.  It  was  clear  to  her,  after  once  hav 
ing  seen  his  emotion  over  the  matter,  that  he  knew  per 
fectly  who  lived  in  the  house  behind.  And  what  would 
happen  when  she  deliberately  plied  him  with  the  ques 
tion.  "  Mr.  Biggamore,"  she  said  hesitantly,  "  I 
have  found  the  house,  and  this  time  there  can  be  no 
mistake.  It  is  the  one  you  pointed  out  to  me ;  your 
neighbor,  just  back  of  us!" 

Instantly  the  inquiry  in  his  face  transformed  into 
open  astonishment.  "  That  house !  "  he  exclaimed, 
as  if  he  were  unable  to  believe  he  had  heard  her 
8  113 


CORRIE  WHO? 

aright.  "You  say  that  is  the  one?  Hm-m-mh!" 
Mr.  Biggamore  pursed  up  his  lips  and  frowned 
thoughtfully.  "  How  long  ago  did  this  Mrs.  —  this 
Mrs.  —  Ah,  yes !  thank  you !  When  did  this  Mrs. 
Pinchin  live  there?  " 

She  reminded  him  it  had  been  fourteen  years 
before.  "  There  can  be  no  mistake,  I  assure 
you,"  she  added  convincingly.  "  I  am  quite  certain 
about  it." 

Mr.  Biggamore  pressed  his  lips  together  again, 
and  with  a  hand  on  each  of  his  knees,  leaned  forward 
intently.  His  manner  now  had  lost  all  its  first  genial, 
eager  kindliness ;  he  had  become  suddenly  alert  and 
cautious,  careful,  shrewd  —  almost  hard.  "  One 
thing  or  the  other,  my  dear  young  lady,"  he  said  con 
cisely,  after  deliberation ;  "  you  are  either  very  sadly 
in  error,  or  you  know  something  which  I,  too,  would 
like  to  know."  He  edged  forward  in  his  chair,  eye 
ing  her  closely.  "  Tell  me,"  he  demanded  abruptly, 
"  who  is  this  Mrs.  Pinchot  —  Pinchot?  no,  that  is  n't 
it  —  I  mean,  who  's  this  Mrs.  Pinchin  ?  —  and  what 
about  her?  " 

Corrie,  thoroughly  alarmed  and  on  guard  now  at 
the  quick  change  in  his  manner,  felt  her  heart  flutter 
nervously.  "  Why  —  why,  who  is  Mrs.  Pinchin,  you 
ask  ?  "  she  stammered,  echoing  his  words  in  the  effort 
to  gain  time  enough  to  compose  herself.  "  Why, 
Mrs.  Pinchin  is  —  she  's " 

She  came  to  an  awkward  pause.  Yes !  who,  indeed, 
was  Mrs.  Pinchin?  For  Corrie  didn't  know,  now 
that  she  came  to  think  of  it.  And  not  knowing,  how 

114 


THE  REBUFF  COURTEOUS 

could  she  explain  herself  to  her  inquisitor,  now  grown 
alert,  his  eyes  fixed  on  her  in  significant  doubt? 

"  My  dear  young  lady,"  protested  Mr.  Bigga- 
more,  after  a  painful  interval,  "  it  strikes  me,  if  I 
may  say  so,  that  this  is  a  rather  queer  proceeding." 
He  moved  nervously  in  his  seat  again,  and  pursed 
out  his  lips.  "  You  come  here  to  my  home,  an  utter 
stranger  to  me,  and  you  ask  me  to  tell  you  what  I 
know  about  the  man  who  lives  in  the  house  behind  us." 
He  cleared  his  throat  noisily  at  this,  and  peered  at 
her.  "  Now  while  I  dislike  to  offend  you  by  an  un 
just  suspicion,  my  young  lady,  you  must  admit  the 
circumstances  to  be  little  in  your  favor.  Particularly 
so,"  he  added  very  gently  and  politely,  "  when  your 
only  explanation  is  that  you  are  hunting  for  a  woman 
you  do  not  seem  to  know — or  so  it  looks.  Now  will  you 
tell  me  what  it  really  is  you  're  trying  to  find  out?  " 

Corrie  caught  at  her  breath;  it  was  as  he  said. 
Here  she  was,  a  young  woman,  very  young  indeed,  a 
girl  hardly  more  than  a  child,  blindly  struggling 
with  vital  matters  far  beyond  her  grasp.  "  But  oh, 

oh,  why  now "  stammered  Corrie,  confusedly,  and 

then  bit  her  lip.  "  Mr.  Biggamore,"  she  said  frankly, 
and  so  far  upset  that  she  made  no  effort  to  hide  her 
embarrassment  and  trouble,  "  I  can't  tell  you  who 
Mrs.  Pinchin  is  because  —  why,  because  I  don't 
know.  I  never  did  know,"  she  added  baldly  as  she 
gazed  at  him,  her  eyes  deep  with  appeal ;  "  and  now 
I  'm  really  trying  to  find  out.  But  she  lived  in  that 
house,  Mr.  Biggamore;  I  know  that  because  I  lived 
there  with  her !  " 

115 


CORRIE  WHO? 

In  the  pause  following  this  astonishing  admission, 
a  pause  more  than  filled,  on  one  hand,  by  the  girl's 
growing  excitement,  on  the  other  hand,  by  Mr.  Big- 
gamore's  open-mouthed  wonder,  a  footfall  sounded  on 
the  stair.  It  came  down  the  flight  with  a  stately 
slowness,  halted  a  moment  at  the  doorway,  and  then  a 
softly  modulated  voice  called  out  quietly :  —  "  Philip, 
are  you  here  ?  " 

Mr.  Biggamore  sprang  to  his  feet.  "  A  moment, 
if  you  please,"  he  murmured  apologetically;  and  as 
he  pushed  aside  the  hangings  at  the  door,  Corrie 
saw  in  the  hallway  a  tall,  slenderly  built  woman,  white 
haired  and  grave,  whose  face  was  sweet  with  its  air 
of  placid  repose.  "  A  young  lady  to  see  me,"  Corrie 
heard  Mr.  Biggamore  hurriedly  explain,  with  a  small 
confusion ;  "  I  want  you  to  come  in  and  speak  to 
her." 

"  A  young  lady  ?  Why,  yes  indeed,  Philip,"  said 
the  quiet  voice  pleasantly,  and  Corrie  rose  to  her 
feet. 

"  This  is  Miss  —  er,  why  Miss  —  "  began  Mr. 
Biggamore  and  then  halted  in  confusion.  "  Bless 
me,  if  I  haven't  gone  and  forgotten  the  name 
again ! " 

"  I  'm  Miss  Robinson,"  Corrie  murmured  shyly, 
herself  a  little  confused,  and,  beside  that,  still  filled 
with  her  emotion  of  the  moment  before.  Though  Mr. 
Biggamore's  surprising  forgetfulness  of  names  had 
broken  off  the  introduction,  she  guessed  the  elderly 
woman's  relation  to  the  little  man  in  a  certain  resem 
blance  that  was  unmistakable.  "  I  'm  afraid  I  must 

116 


THE  REBUFF  COURTEOUS 

have  been  troubling  your  brother  a  great  deal," 
she  ventured.  "  I  hope  I  have  n't  kept  him  from 
you." 

"  Nonsense !  not  troubling  me  in  the  least ! "  ex 
claimed  Mr.  Biggamore,  but  whether  sincerely  or  not 
was  a  question;  that  is,  if  one  considered  how  he 
tugged  at  his  forelock  and  trod  from  one  foot  to  the 
other.  "  Delighted,  I  *m  sure.  Highly  interested, 
besides ! " 

The  white-haired  woman  looked  around  inquiringly. 
"  Interested  ?  why,  that 's  very  good,  I  am  sure. 
My  brother  is  usually  so  engrossed  in  his  flowers, 
Miss  Robinson,  that  it  is  hard  to  get  him  away  from 
them.  What  is  it  about,  may  I  know?  "  she  asked, 
smiling  pleasantly.  Drawing  the  folds  of  her  soft, 
clinging,  gray  house  dress  about  her,  she  sat  down 
beside  Corrie  on  the  sofa,  and  bent  toward  her  en 
couragingly,  as  if  to  overcome  what  was  naturally  a 
young  girl's  shyness. 

Corrie's  eyes  dropped  uncomfortably.  So  far  from 
setting  her  at  her  ease,  the  gentle  lady  at  her  side  had 
only  succeeded  in  forcing  on  her  an  added  knowledge 
of  how  awkward  the  situation  had  become.  For,  if  it 
had  seemed  difficult  to  explain  herself  to  Mr.  Bigga 
more,  how  could  she  blurt  it  out  now  to  this  quiet, 
self-repressed,  grave,  gray-haired  woman  beside  her? 
But  before  the  uncomfortable  pause  had  become  too 
significant,  Mr.  Biggamore  spoke. 

"  My  dear  Laura,"  said  he,  peering  over  his  spec 
tacles  at  his  sister,  "  our  young  friend  here  has  come 
to  me  with  a  question  that  seems  to  be  a  very  earnest 

117 


CORRIE  WHO? 

matter  to  her.  I  have  n't  been  able  to  answer  it, 
but  perhaps  you  can.  The  fact  is,  do  you  know  a 
Mrs.  Pinchin?  "  He  turned  inquiringly  to  Corrie. 
"That  is  the  name,  as  I  recall  it?  Thank  you! 
Laura,  have  you  ever  heard  of  this  Mrs.  Pinchin?  " 

"  Pmchm?  "  Mr.  Biggamore's  sister  uttered  the 
name  with  just  the  faintest  note  of  recognition. 
"  Pinchin  ?  —  where  have  I  heard  it  now  ?  Why !  — 
just  a  moment  —  Pinchin?  —  Pinchin?"  Then  her 
eyes  lighted.  "  Oh,  yes !  Mrs.  Pinchin ;  why,  of 
course!  I  remember  the  name." 

Corrie  impulsively  bent  toward  her.  "  There!  I 
was  sure  of  it !  "  she  cried,  her  face  lighted  with  ani 
mation.  "  Now  won't  you  let  me  tell  you  what  I 
want  to  know.  It 's  this !  "  she  exclaimed,  growing 
still  more  eager.  "  Mrs.  Pinchin  lived  in  this  house 
behind  us.  Then  there  was  a  boy  who  lived  here  — 
here  in  your  house  —  a  boy  with  brown  hair 
and  a  snub  nose.  Why !  "  exclaimed  Corrie,  in  grow 
ing  excitement,  "  why !  it  must  have  been  your  son ! 
It  must  have  been,  Mr.  Biggamore !  " 

At  the  excited  words  and  aware  of  the  girl's  grow 
ing  agitation,  Mr.  Biggamore  and  his  sister  looked 
at  each  other  blankly.  "  My  son !  my  boy !  "  ex 
claimed  Mr.  Biggamore,  in  obvious  stupefaction ;  "  I 
have  no  son.  What  are  you  saying?  I  have  no  boy; 
never  had  any.  Nor  chick  nor  child  of  any  kind !  " 

His  sister  was  the  first  to  gain  composure.  "  One 
moment,  Philip,"  she  begged  the  astounded  Mr.  Big 
gamore  ;  "  I  believe  I  know  whom  Miss  Robinson  has 
in  mind.  But  before  this  goes  any  further,  I  should 

118 


THE  REBUFF  COURTEOUS 

like  to  be  enlightened.  What  is  this  all  about?  " 
With  quiet  dignity  she  bent  her  eyes  on  Corrie. 
"  This  boy  you  speak  about  —  what  do  you  wish  to 
know  about  him?  And  why  do  you  wish  to  know?  " 

Corrie's  voice  trembled  uncertainly  when  she  an 
swered.  "  He  knew  something  I  wish  to  learn.  I 
talked  to  him  through  the  fence  back  there.  I  was 
living  in  that  house." 

For  a  brief  moment  Mr.  Biggamore  and  his  sister 
exchanged  another  glance.  "  Ah !  And  you  say  Mrs. 
Pinchin  lived  there,  too?"  the  elderly  woman  per 
sisted;  and  when  Corrie  bent  her  head  in  silent  as 
sent,  Mr.  Biggamore's  sister  pressed  her  lips  tightly 
together,  her  manner  even  graver  than  before. 
"  Philip,  Miss  Robinson  seems  very  confident.  What 
do  you  think  of  it  ?  " 

"  Think  of  it !  "  exploded  Mr.  Biggamore,  who  dur 
ing  the  moment  had  been  teetering  to  and  fro,  his 
hands  thrust  behind  him  furiously  tossing  his  coat- 
tails.  "  Think  of  it !  I  don't  know  what  to  think  at 
all.  In  the  first  place,  who  in  the  world  is  this  Mrs. 
Pinchin?  You  seem  to  know  her,  Laura!  Who  is 
she,  I  say?  " 

There  was  a  pointed  meaning  in  her  tone  when  she 
spoke.  "  If  you  '11  try  to  think,  Philip,  you  will  re 
call  her,  too." 

"  Think?  how  can  I  think?  "  Mr.  Biggamore  pro 
tested  hotly.  "  Never  heard  of  her  in  my  life ! 
Come,  stop  this.  Who  is  she?  " 

"  The  boy's  new  acquaintance,"  she  answered,  and 
in  the  crisp  directness  of  her  words,  there  was  every 

119 


CORRIE  WHO? 

quality  of  dramatic  intensity.  "  It  is  she,  without  a 
doubt.  But  what  her  motive  is,  who  can  say?  " 

Mr.  Biggamore  plumped  down  into  the  nearest 
chair,  and  leaning  toward  his  sister,  opened  his  mouth 
and  eyes  until  they  had  made  of  him  the  living  per 
sonation  of  an  exclamation  point.  "  Her!  "  he  cried, 
expressively,  if  inelegantly.  "  Her !  —  why !  —  oh, 
well  I  never!  " 

Poor  Corrie !  Filled  with  a  new  alarm,  she  felt  her 
heart  beat  thickly  in  her  breast.  Who  were  these 
persons  on  whom  she  had  stumbled  so  blindly,  and 
why  their  wonder  at  the  possible,  if  not  probable, 
identity  of  Mrs.  Pinchin?  That  they  knew  her  now, 
or,  at  least,  knew  something  about  some  Mrs.  Pinchin, 
was  clearly  obvious  —  painfully  so,  in  fact.  But  out 
of  the  hopeless  tangle,  she  could  draw  nothing  defi 
nite —  nothing,  unless  it  were  an  added,  creeping 
trepidation. 

"  What  is  it  you  wish  to  know  from  my  boy  ?  " 
inquired  Mr.  Biggamore's  sister,  quietly,  but  with  a 
disturbing  reserve  in  her  tone  and  manner. 

Corrie  moistened  her  dry  lips.  "  It  was  n't  really 
the  boy,"  she  answered,  choosing  her  words  slowly 
with  the  knowledge  that  caution  was  required  now. 
"  It  was  his  father.  The  boy  said  his  father  knew 
something,  and  now  I  am  trying  to  find  it  out.  If  I 
could  see  his  father !  May  I  see  him  ?  He  would  tell 
me,  I  think.  Can't  you  or  Mr.  Biggamore  take  me 
to  him?" 

Very  quietly  and  simply  the  grave-faced  woman 
answered  the  girl's  plea.  She  folded  her  hands  in  her 

120 


THE  REBUFF  COURTEOUS 

lap  and  a  shadow  drew  across  her  face;  her  lips 
trembled  momentarily  with  some  hidden  pain.  "  He 
was  my  boy's  father,  Miss  Robinson.  He  died  many 
years  ago,  just  after  we  moved  into  this  house." 

The  silence  grew.  Mr.  Biggamore  sat  staring  at 
the  carpet;  and  outside  in  the  hall  the  tall  clock 
ticked  with  a  heavy,  measured  tread  —  a  slow,  thick, 
deliberate  tick !  tock !  —  tick !  tock !  —  the  footfalls 
of  passing  time.  Beside  the  girl  Mr.  Biggamore's 
sister  leaned  back  with  a  far-away  thoughtfulness  in 
her  eyes,  gazing  pensively  through  the  half-drawn 
curtains  of  the  window ;  and  even  Corrie  knew  from 
the  look  how  unforgotten  and  painful  the  sorrow 
must  be  whose  wraith  she  had  so  ruthlessly,  though 
innocently,  dragged  up  out  of  the  past. 

"  Oh!  "  she  whispered  contritely,  and  at  the  mur 
mur  the  two  others  stirred  slowly. 

"  Laura,"  said  Mr.  Biggamore,  slowly  deliberate, 
but  with  all  the  former  significance  in  his  tone, 
"  Laura,  this  is  a  strange  affair.  Very,  very  strange, 
I  should  say.  Can  this  young  lady  be  right?  Some 
how,  I  can't  quite  convince  myself,  but  I  think  we 
ought  to  make  sure  about  that  woman  ever  living 
there.  Don't  you  think  so,  too  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  absently ;  "  I  think  we  ought 
to  make  sure." 

He  paced  across  the  room  and  back  again.  "  Will 
you  describe  this  Mrs.  Pinchin?  "  he  asked;  and  once 
more  Corrie  heard  his  first  quiet  tone  of  encourage 
ment  ;  "  I  should  like  to  hear  what  she  looks  like." 

Corrie  described  her.  Detail  by  detail,  as  closely 
121 


CORRIE  WHO? 

as  she  could,  she  drew  the  figure  of  Mrs.  Pinchin: 
Mrs.  Pinchin's  massive  form,  her  dark,  leathery  face, 
its  square  jaw  and  drooping  mouth;  Mrs.  Pinchin's 
thick-lidded,  peering  eyes,  deep  and  langourously 
dull ;  her  limp,  her  stick,  her  deliberate  gait  —  Mrs. 
Pinchin  to  the  life.  None  could  have  mistaken  the 
likeness ;  the  stalwart,  heavy,  square-framed,  ponder 
ous,  deliberate  woman,  her  profound,  suspicious  man 
ner,  her  grim  and  resolute  way.  None  could  have  mis 
taken  it  for  any  other  woman  had  the  listener  ever  laid 
eyes  on  Mrs.  Pinchin.  The  two  hearkening  intently, 
looked  at  each  other  and  blankly  shook  their  heads. 

"  Phil,"  said  Mr.  Biggamore's  sister,  "  this  is 
queer.  That  woman  never  lived  in  the  house  behind 
us,  I  am  very  sure ;  or  not  while  we  have  been  living 
here.  But  the  description  is  a  very  close  description 
of  Phil's  Mrs.  Pinchin,  there  can  be  no  mistake  of 
that.  But  that  she  lived  there!  Incredible!  or 
Mr.  Biggamore's  sister  caught  her  breath, 
and  stopped.  "  Or " 

The  brother,  too,  seemed  to  share  her  thought, 
whatever  it  may  have  been  —  the  apparent  suspicion 
that  had  so  abruptly  silenced  the  gray-haired  woman. 
But  Phil's  Mrs.  Pinchin!  Who  was  she?  It  was  on 
the  end  of  Corrie's  tongue  to  ask  impulsively,  when 
once  again  Mr.  Biggamore  cut  in.  "  Now  look 
here !  "  he  exclaimed,  or,  rather,  once  more  exploded ; 
"  you  lived  in  that  house  and  you  say  she  lived  in 
that  house  ?  Are  you  dead  certain  ?  " 

Corrie  nodded  rather  drearily,  wondering  in  dis 
may  what  kind  of  a  hornet's  nest  she  had  really 

122 


THE  REBUFF  COURTEOUS 

stirred  up  around  her.  Mr.  Biggamore  got  up  and 
stood  in  front  of  her.  "  Very  well  then !  And  now, 
my  dear  young  girl,  will  you  please  tell  me  why  you 
are  sure?  Give  me  one  good  reason  —  just  one.  I  '11 
own  up  it 's  a  pretty  important  matter  to  me  to  find 
out.  Now,  why  are  you  so  sure?  " 

"  Because,"  answered  Corrie,  raising  her  face ; 
"  because  I  lived  there  with  her.  Because  I  know  the 
house  and  remember  it.  I  remember  the  number, 
too.  No,  I  'm  sure,  Mr.  Biggamore,  and  besides  — 
why,  not  half  an  hour  ago  I  saw  Mrs.  Pinchin  her 
self  come  out  of  that  very  house !  " 

If  Corrie  had  tried  deliberately  to  arrange  and 
stage  a  dramatic  climax,  it  could  have  possessed  no 
greater  emotion,  nor  been  any  more  intense  than  the 
result  of  this  unpremeditated  shot.  Mrs.  Pinchin  seen 
coming  out  of  that  house?  The  words  appeared  to 
fall  on  the  two  like  a  bolt  out  of  a  clear  sky.  Mr.  Big 
gamore  gasped,  and  the  sister,  for  a  moment  forget 
ting  her  calm  and  dignified  reserve,  suffered  an  ex 
clamation  to  escape  her. 

"  Then,  Philip,"  said  Mr.  Biggamore's  sister,  "  this 
explains  that  woman's  strange  interest  in  the  boy ; 
or  rather,  it  gives  us  an  inkling.  But  what  is  she 
trying  to  do?  What  is  her  motive?" 

With  the  words  still  on  her  lips,  she  turned  in 
stantly  to  Corrie,  a  sudden,  pointed  suspicion  in  her 
manner.  "  Miss  Robinson,  there  is  a  Mrs.  Pinchin 
living  in  West  Seventy-fifth  Street  near  the  Park. 
Do  you  happen  to  know  her  ?  " 

In  West  Seventy-fifth  Street !  It  was  Corrie's  own 
123 


CORRIE  WHO? 

Mrs.  Pinchin,  of  course!  There  was  no  doubt  of 
that!  But  in  her  embarrassment  at  being  asked  so 
pointedly  and  suspiciously,  Corrie  forgot  astonishment 
that  they  had  guessed  who  it  was.  "  Yes,  I  know  her ; 
she  is  the  one,"  she  answered  dully,  unaware,  too,  of 
what  the  admission  must  have  signified  to  them. 

Again  the  gray-haired  woman  caught  her  breath. 
"  You  know  her  ?  And  you  say  she  is  the  one  you  are 
hunting?  Miss  Robinson,  what  is  your  relation  to 
this  Mrs.  Pinchin,  may  I  inquire?  " 

Corrie  answered,  feeling  it  was  no  use  to  hold  back 
the  truth ;  they  could  find  out  anyway,  if  they  chose. 
"  I  live  with  her  —  I  am  her  companion  !  " 

"  Ah,  indeed !  "  The  murmured  comment  was  filled 
with  every  significance  of  what  Mr.  Biggamore's  sister 
had  decided  this  young  woman  to  be;  but  Corrie 
blundered  on,  her  mind  in  no  condition  to  take  it  in. 
She  even  overlooked  the  fact  that  the  other  had  risen 
and  was  now  standing  with  folded  hands,  manifestly 
no  longer  willing  to  prolong  the  uncomfortable  in 
terview.  "  Yes,"  said  Corrie,  "  I  've  lived  with  her 
always.  I  lived  in  the  house  behind  you,  too.  Won't 
you  tell  me  who  lives  there  now?  " 

It  was  the  covert  shake  of  Mr.  Biggamore's  head 
that  awoke  the  girl  to  a  full  sense  of  her  position  — 
a  furtive  signal  wigwagging  caution.  But  Mr.  Big 
gamore's  sister  required  no  warning. 

"  Miss  Robinson,"  she  said  courteously,  yet  with 
an  icy  decisiveness  that  left  Corrie  no  longer  in  ig 
norance,  "  you  will  pardon  me,  but  let  me  recall  to 
you  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Pinchin  is  already  supplied 

124 


THE  REBUFF  COURTEOUS 

with  the  information  you  come  for.  Philip,  will  you 
open  the  door  for  Miss  Robinson?  " 

"  Why  —  oh !  "  That  was  all.  There  was  nothing 
to  say,  though  Corrie  made  a  stammering  effort  to 
explain  herself.  But  as  she  started  toward  the  door, 
confused  and  wounded,  flushing  with  the  shame  of 
her  false  position,  a  key  was  thrust  into  the  lock,  the 
door  opened,  and  a  voice  cried  out  cheerfully,  "  Oh, 
mother!  Hello,  uncle!  Anyone  at  home?" 

Corrie  stood  rooted  to  the  carpet.  A  young  man 
appeared  at  the  door,  and  when  his  eye  fell  on  Corrie 
he  flashed  at  her  a  moment's  dumbfounded  look  of 
wonder,  and  then  burst  into  a  peal  of  laughter. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Robinson !  Oh,  what  a  j  oke !  "  he  cried 
cordially,  and  not  in  the  least  embarrassed.  "  So 
the  ogres  have  really  got  you?  " 

It  was  Phil  Geikie,  of  course  —  young  Mr.  Geikie 
who  had  craftily  directed  Corrie  to  his  own  home  in 
her  search  for  the  missing  mansion.  Plainly  speak 
ing,  he  had  done  so  for  several  reasons ;  the  chief 
one  of  which  was  that  he  might  return  and  find  her 
there;  another,  that  he  wished  to  hear  from  his 
mother  just  what  she  thought  of  this  curious  Mrs. 
Pinchin's  highly  interesting  paid  companion.  But 
Corrie,  too  hurt  to  realize  and  knowing  only  what  it 
had  cost  her,  hung  her  head  and  tried  to  get  by  him 
to  the  door. 

"  Oh ! "  he  exclaimed,  and  then  he  stared  at  his 
mother  and  uncle.  One  look  was  enough.  He  turned 
to  Corrie  in  dismay.  "  Why,  what  has  happened?  " 


125 


CHAPTER   VIII 

In  which  our  young  hero  is  led  to  regret  his  unusual  method  of 
presenting  Corrie  to  his  family.  —  His  effort  to  pour  oil  on 
troubled  waters.  —  Corrie  's  departure  under  a  cloud,  and  the 
young  man's  ready  sympathy.  —  Stanwood  Geikie,  the 
family's  evil  genius,  and  the  tale  of  how  money  may  be  cast 
away  with  good  effect.  —  The  Tollabees  placed;  but  no  ac 
counting  for  Mrs.  Pinchin.  —  Stanwood  Geikie's  deserted 
wife.  —  Corrie  tells  part  of  her  story.  —  One  advantage  from 
looking  dowdy. 


"IXTHY  !  "  exclaimed  Phil  Geikie,  confusedly,  "  is 
•  »  there  anything  wrong?  " 
A  great  deal  appeared  to  be  wrong.  His  mother, 
her  head  thrown  back  proudly,  stood  looking  at  him 
in  haughty  disapproval  as  she  realized  that  this 
young  woman  and  her  son  seemed  to  know  each  other 
rather  well  ;  and  his  uncle,  energetically  twitching  his 
stray  wisp  of  hair,  uncomfortably  averted  his  eyes. 
Corrie,  even  more  uncomfortable  than  the  others, 
gazed  at  Phil  as  if  yet  unable  to  grasp  the  explana 
tion  of  his  sudden  appearance  on  the  scene;  for  his 
entrance,  coming  as  it  did  as  a  climax  to  her  other 
bewilderments,  served  to  put  a  finishing  touch  on  the 
chaos  in  her  mind.  Forgetting  it  was  the  boy  himself 
who  had  playfully  sent  her  to  his  own  home,  she 
thought  only  of  the  consequences.  And  now  that  he 
had  found  her  there,  what  was  to  happen  ?  Was  Mrs. 
Pinchin  to  learn  through  this  channel  also  some 

126 


OIL  ON  TROUBLED  WATERS 

further  history  of  how  her  companion  had  occupied 
this  rather  extraordinary  morning? 

"You  know  Miss  Robinson,  I  see?"  said  Mrs. 
Geikie,  slowly,  and  with  an  inflection  that  gave  to  the 
question  a  pointed  force. 

"  Know  her  ?  Why,  of  course  I  do !  "  answered 
Phil,  heartily.  "  Don't  you  remember  my  telling  you 
how  I ' ve  talked  to  her  ?  It  was  she,  mother,  whom  I 
met  at  Mrs.  Pinchin's." 

Mrs.  Geikie  still  regarded  him  with  an  unchanged 
expression.  "  Precisely !  You  talked  to  the  people  in 
that  house,  though  you  could  n't  realize  why  they 
took  such  an  interest  in  your  affairs."  Phil  caught 
her  note  of  resentment  and  stirred  uneasily. 

"  Could  n't  realize?  Mother,  I  don't  think  I  quite 
understand  you." 

Mrs.  Geikie  faintly  smiled.  "  I  mean  this,  Phil : 
Miss  Robinson  came  here  this  morning  to  ask 
whether  we  knew  of  the  Mrs.  Pinchin,  whom,  I  now 
find,  she  is  living  with.  Rather  singular,  was  n't  it? 
Naturally  we  could  tell  her  nothing  she  does  not  al 
ready  know;  though  I  am  afraid  Miss  Robinson  is 
not  satisfied.  In  fact,  I  have  had  to  tell  her  there 
are  personal  reasons  why  we  should  n't  answer  her 
many  questions.  I  trust  you  have  been  as  cautious." 

"  Mother ! "  exclaimed  Phil,  in  remonstrance,  but 
before  he  could  speak  again,  Corrie  found  her 
voice. 

"  Personal  reasons,  Mrs.  Geikie ! "  she  cried,  as 
tonished.  "  Why,  I  had  no  idea  of  asking  you  any 
thing  like  that.  There  must  be  some  mistake." 

127 


CORRIE  WHO? 

"  Yes,  mother,  I  hardly  think  Miss  Robinson  could 
do  that.  How  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Precisely  what  I  say,"  answered  his  mother, 
coldly.  "  Miss  Robinson  insists  on  our  telling  her 
what  we  know  of  the  person  living  in  that  house  be 
hind  us.  She  says  further  she  has  seen  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin  coming  out  of  it.  And,  as  you  are  aware,  I 
know  only  one  thing  about  the  man  who  lives  there  — 
something  that  for  years  I  have  tried  painfully  to 
forget." 

But  Corrie,  alive  to  what  their  suspicion  conveyed, 
stood  ready  to  plead  her  cause.  "  Oh,  Mrs.  Geikie,  I 
can't  let  you  misunderstand  me  so !  "  she  protested. 
"  And  you,  Mr.  Biggamore !  "  she  cried,  turning  to 
him,  "  I  never  dreamed  of  offending  you  like  that ! 
I  knew  nothing  about  the  people  living  in  that  house, 
and  even  now  I  don't  understand  how  anything  I 
have  said  should  make  such  trouble ! " 

Her  earnestness  carried  conviction  with  it,  and 
even  Mr.  Biggamore  and  his  sister  seemed  a  little 
less  certain  in  their  suspicion. 

"  Laura,"  said  the  little  gentleman,  "  perhaps  we 
have  done  Miss  Robinson  an  injustice.  I  think  we 
ought  to  tell  her  what  we  know,  for  no  matter  what 
might  be  said  about  it,  we  have  nothing  after  all 
to  conceal.  Perhaps  we  may  get  some  light  on  the 
matter,  too,  for  I  frankly  confess  it 's  far  beyond 
me." 

Mrs.  Geikie,  looking  at  Corrie  quietly,  pondered 
the  question.  "  If  you  mean  there  is  nothing  for  us 
to  hide,  Philip,  I  agree  with  you.  But  Philip,"  she 

128 


OIL  ON  TROUBLED  WATERS 

added  definitely,  "  I  am  still  to  be  convinced  that 
we  should  discuss  this  matter  with  anyone  —  least  of 
all,  when  the  person  is  a  stranger  who  has  not  given 
to  us  a  very  clear  idea  of  what  she  is  trying  to  find 
out."  She  looked  meaningly  at  Corrie.  "  I  think  even 
Miss  Robinson  must  assent  to  that." 

"  Mother !  "  cried  Phil,  again. 

But  Mrs.  Geikie  gave  no  heed  she  had  heard  him. 
"  Perhaps  Miss  Robinson  will  tell  us  her  motive  for 
wishing  to  know  ?  " 

Yes,  why  Corrie  wished  to  know!  It  seemed  rea 
sonable  enough,  and,  of  course,  there  were  many  de 
cided  reasons  why  Corrie  wished  to  know.  But  to  tell 
them  her  motives  and  all  about  this  matter  of  Corrie 
•who  and  Corrie  what,  argued  a  frankness  that  could 
hardly  be  expected  of  her.  It  might  do  well  enough 
to  admit  to  herself  she  knew  nothing  of  her  own  name 
and  parentage,  but  to  confess  it  to  them  —  and  par 
ticularly  to  this  young  and  attractive  boy  —  well, 
that  was  rather  different!  The  thought  of  it  was 
enough  to  send  the  color  into  her  cheeks,  and  she 
dropped  her  eyes  in  embarrassment. 

"  I  don't  think  I  can  tell  you,  Mrs.  Geikie,"  she 
answered  slowly.  "  I  have  a  reason,  but  it 's  not  the 
one  you  think.  I  hope  you  will  pardon  me  for  making 
you  so  much  trouble." 

But,  as  she  moved  toward  the  door,  Phil  Geikie 
tried  quietly  to  relieve  the  situation.  "  Mother," 
said  he,  though  his  eyes  were  on  Corrie,  "  you 
must  n't  let  Miss  Robinson  go  like  this.  I  don't 
wonder  she  does  n't  care  to  say  anything  when  we 
9  129 


CORRIE  WHO? 

have  been  so  rude  to  her.  Won't  you  try  to 
straighten  it  out?  " 

Corrie  shook  her  head  at  him.  "  No,  Mr.  Geikie, 
there  is  n't  anything  to  be  said  now.  I  realize  how 
it  must  look  to  your  mother,  and  she  is  quite  right,  I 
think.  It  is  queer,  but  I  can't  help  myself,  and  I  have 
no  right  to  bother  her  any  more." 

Then  fearful  lest  they  see  the  tears  brimming  in  her 
eyes,  Corrie  bent  her  head  and  hurriedly  left  the  room, 
her  only  wish  to  get  away  from  the  uncomfortable 
predicament. 

But,  as  the  girl  stumbled  blindly  down  the  little 
flight  of  steps  to  the  street,  she  was  aware  that  he 
had  come  with  her,  and  was  now  looking  down  at  her, 
concerned  for  her  trouble.  "  Please  don't  feel  so 
badly  about  it,"  he  begged  presently.  "  I  don't 
think  mother  realized  how  much  it  meant  to  you. 
Miss  Robinson,"  he  added  hesitatingly,  as  if  fearful 
of  intruding  himself,  "  is  n't  there  some  way  I  can 
help  you  ?  I  have  n't  realized  before  this  was  so 
serious  a  matter  with  you.  If  I  could  do  anything, 
or,"  he  went  on,  still  more  earnestly,  "  if  there  were 
some  way  you  could  let  mother  get  at  it,  I  'm  sure 
she  'd  be  only  too  willing  to  aid  you  all  she  could. 
She  's  upset  now.  I  don't  think  you  know  why,  but 
I  assure  you  she  has  every  reason  to  be.  Why !  "  he 
exclaimed  energetically,  "  you  don't  realize  who  the 
man  is  that  lives  in  the  house  behind  us !  I  '11  tell 
you  if  you  like." 

At  his  earnestness  Corrie  forgot,  for  a  moment, 
her  own  concern.  But  with  the  instant's  desire  to 

130 


OIL  ON  TROUBLED  WATERS 

hear  what  he  had  to  tell  came  the  fear  that  her  long 
ing  to  know  might  be  construed  only  as  vulgar  curi 
osity.  "  No,  I  think  it  would  be  better  if  you 
did  n't  tell  me,"  she  cautioned  dully ;  "  it  probably 
would  n't  mean  anything  to  me,  anyway." 

But  he  gave  no  heed  to  the  caution.  "  Perhaps  it 
would,  though,  and  at  all  events  there  is  really 
nothing  to  conceal.  The  man  is  my  uncle,  Stanwood 
Geikie." 

"  Oh ! "  murmured  Corrie,  and  echoed  the  name. 
"  Your  uncle,  and  yet  you  have  n't  known  that  he 
was  acquainted  with  Mrs.  Pinchin?  " 

But  Stanwood  Geikie!  Who  was  he?  and  what 
was  his  connection  with  the  Pinchin  matter?  Of 
course,  the  fact  that  the  man  was  Philip  Geikie's 
uncle  might  in  a  way  explain  the  curious  behavior  of 
Mr.  Biggamore  and  his  sister;  but  beyond  that,  the 
knowledge  of  their  relationship  with  him  served  only 
to  throw  her  mind  into  a  still  greater  confusion.  For 
what  was  the  explanation  of  Mrs.  Pinchin's  connec 
tion  with  this  Stanwood  Geikie?  Why  had  she  gone 
to  his  house  that  morning?  and  what  had  taken  her 
there?  Was  her  relation  merely  one  between  land 
lord  and  tenant  ?  Was  the  house  still  hers  ?  and  Mrs. 
Pinchin  a  visitor  only  to  inspect  her  property? 
Furthermore,  what  was  the  antagonism  between  the 
man  and  his  relatives  —  Mr.  Biggamore,  his  sister, 
and  nephew  ? 

Corrie  was  still  battling  with  her  perplexities  when 
he  spoke  again.  "Do  you  wonder  now  why  my  mother 
and  uncle  were  so  suspicious  ?  "  he  inquired.  "  You 

131 


CORRIE  WHO? 

see,  the  truth  is,  they  had  already  begun  to  imagine 
something  queer  in  Mrs.  Pinchin's  interest  in  me. 
The  fact  that  you  had  seen  Mrs.  Pinchin  coming  out 
of  his  house  turned  their  suspicions  into  certainty, 
and  they  were  ready  then  to  suspect  anyone.  I 
hardly  need  tell  you  they  have  every  reason  to  dread 
him ;  you  must  have  seen  that  from  their  manner." 

"  But  I  thought  you  were  only  Mrs.  Pinchin's 
architect !  "  cried  Corrie,  all  at  sea.  "  Are  n't  you 
only  rebuilding  some  of  her  houses  ?  " 

He  smiled  at  her  perplexity.  "  That 's  the 
queerest  part  about  it,"  he  replied ;  "  we  were  all  in 
the  dark  why  she  came  to  me  with  that  work  until 
you  turned  on  the  light."  Then  he  laughed,  and 
wrinkled  up  his  face  ruefully.  "  I  suppose  you  'd  like 
to  know  why?  Well,  in  the  first  place,  Mrs.  Pinchin 
is  one  of  the  very  first  clients  who  came  to  me.  Not 
because  I  had  n't  tried  to  get  others,"  chuckled 
young  Mr.  Geikie,  making  another  face  over  it ;  "  oh, 
no,  indeed!  But  to  make  it  clear  to  you,  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin  virtually  dropped  in  on  me  out  of  a  blue  sky ; 
particularly  blue,  it  must  have  been,  too,  judging  by 
the  way  I  felt.  You  see,  I  'd  j  ust  started  in.  At 
all  events,  I  got  a  note  asking  me  to  call  on  her. 
Mind,  now,  I  'd  never  heard  of  her  before !  and  when 
I  went  up  to  her  house,  she  handed  me  out  this  com 
mission.  Of  course,"  he  added  with  a  laughing  good 
humor,  "  with  my  own  sublime  knowledge  of  my 
abilities  and  my  certain  fame  and  that,  clients  were 
to  be  expected.  Oh,  yes !  and  that 's  what  Uncle 
Phil  had  kept  on  telling  me  when  I  got  too  much  in 

132 


OIL  ON  TROUBLED  WATERS 

the  blues.  Why,  good  heavens !  "  here  he  chuckled 
again,  "  to  hear  Uncle  Phil  go  on  you  'd  think  I 
was  a  Viollet-le-Duc  or  a  Christopher  Wren.  But 
anyway,  Mrs.  Pinchin  engaged  me,  and  since  then 
I  've  lain  awake  nights  trying  to  figure  out  where  she 
ever  heard  of  me,  or  why  she  ever  trusted  her  precious 
houses  into  the  hands  of  an  architect  who  was  about 
as  well  known  to  her  as  —  well,  say  John  Smith  in 
the  directory !  " 

"Yes,  it  was  queer,  wasn't  it?"  assented  Corrie, 
with  such  unaffected  frankness  that  he  glanced  at 
her  ruefully.  "  I  don't  wonder  you  thought  so !  " 

"  Thanks,  Miss  Robinson !  Very  nice  of  you  to 
say  it,"  he  retorted  with  a  grin,  and  Corrie  blushed 
rosily.  "  But,  never  mind ;  it  did  seem  queer,  and  I 
told  my  uncle  I  thought  so,  too." 

"  And  what  did  he  say  ?  " 

"He?  Oh,  he  just  said 'Pooh!'  He  had  it  all  fig 
ured  out  that  talent  like  mine  could  n't  remain  hid 
den  under  a  bushel,  and  that  news  of  my  coming  had 
already  leaked  out  to  an  expectant  world.  But 
mother  was  n't  so  ready  to  deceive  herself.  She 
thought  I  was  the  boy  wonder,  of  course,  but  still 
she  tried  to  find  out  something  from  her  friends 
about  this  Mrs.  Pinchin." 

"  Did  anyone  know  her?  "  asked  Corrie,  quickly. 

"  No.  No  one  knew  Mrs.  Pinchin,  it  appeared. 
But  that  is  n't  strange,"  he  exclaimed  clearly. 
"  Mother's  friends  are  the  kind  that  have  never 
known  anyone  else  but  themselves  since  they  came 
over  in  the  Ark.  I  don't  believe  they  're  acquainted 

133 


CORRIE  WHO? 

with  a  soul  above  Fifty-ninth  Street,  and  mighty 
few,  besides,  above  Murray  Hill,  —  that  is,  if  you 
except  a  few  strays  that  have  been  driven  northward 
out  of  their  ancestral  homes  by  someone  putting  up 
a  factory  next  door,  or  an  office  building  that  cut  off 
all  the  light.  You  know  how  the  Avenue 's  been 
changed  around  the  last  few  years.  Why,"  he 
laughed,  "  one  of  mother's  friends  was  complain 
ing  the  other  day  that  all  the  lower  part  had  been 
turned  into  a  sweatshop  now,  and  that  her  front 
steps  had  become  a  noonday  luncheon  counter.  You 
know  how  they  pour  out  of  those  big  buildings  at 
noon?  Well,  mother  advised  her  friend  to  move. 
'  Move ! '  she  screamed,  *  like  some  vulgar  millionaire 
with  a  house  up  around  the  Park  ?  I  '11  have  you 
to  understand  that  the  Duyckirks  move  only  once 
in  their  lives,  and  that 's  to  Greenwood  Cemetery ! ' 
But  to  get  back  to  Mrs.  Pinchin.  No  one  seemed  to 
know  anything  about  her." 

*'  Yes,"  Corrie  assented,  "  no  one  seems  to  know 
at  all.  I  wish  I  knew  myself." 

"  You  know  nothing  about  her  ?  "  he  echoed,  as  if 
not  quite  understanding  what  she  meant.  "  How  was 
it  then,  may  I  ask,  that  you  went  to  live  with  her?  " 

If  the  young  man  had  stopped  to  think  a  moment, 
he  might  not  have  asked  so  impertinent  a  question  — 
a  question  that,  if  answered  frankly,  might  have  given 
Corrie  no  little  embarrassment  to  answer.  "  I  've 
lived  with  her  a  long  while,"  she  replied  evasively; 
"  but  I  know  only  that  she  calls  herself  Mrs.  Pinchin. 
I  don't  know  much  else  about  her,  though." 

134 


OIL  ON  TROUBLED  WATERS 

To  have  disclosed  more  would  have  been  also  to 
disclose  the  fact  that  she  had  gone  to  Mrs.  Pinchin  as 
a  child,  an  admission  that  in  itself  would  have  re 
quired  still  further  explanations;  and  Corrie  was 
still  determined  to  hide  from  him  the  fact  that  she 
had  been  adopted,  that  she  knew  nothing  of  her  par 
entage,  that  her  origin  was  to  her  an  unsolved  riddle. 
The  result  was  that  he  jumped  at  an  entirely  differ 
ent  conclusion. 

"  Oh,  I  see  how  it  is  now ! "  he  cried  animatedly. 
Why,  of  course !  how  stupid  of  me !  You  're  trying 
to  find  out  who  she  is,  so  that  you  '11  know  whether 
it 's  proper  for  you  to  live  with  her.  Now,  why 
did  n't  you  say  so  to  mother?  " 

Corrie  understood  him  instantly.  "  No,"  she  an 
swered,  unwilling  to  deceive  him  openly,  though  the 
explanation  would  prove  embarrassing,  "  that  was  n't 
it  altogether.  It  means  more  than  finding  out 
about  Mrs.  Pinchin.  It  meant  finding  out  about 
myself  as  well  —  something  I  can't  talk  to  you 
about,"  she  admitted  unguardedly. 

His  look  of  quick  astonishment  warned  her  she  was 
going  too  far  now,  and  she  paused,  looking  up  at  him. 
"  Mr  Geikie,"  she  said,  and  involuntarily  laid  a  hand 
on  the  young  man's  arm,  "  you  can  trust  me,  can't 
you?  I  want  you  and  your  mother  to  know  I  had  a 
real  reason  for  going  to  your  house  to-day.  It  is 
something  of  a  good  deal  of  importance  to  me. 
You  '11  believe  that,  and  trust  me,  won't  you?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed  I  will ! "  he  answered  sincerely. 
"  You  don't  need  to  ask  that  of  me,"  he  added ;  and 

135 


CORRIE  WHO? 

as  they  went  on  through  the  quiet,  deserted  street, 
she  felt  his  hand  clasp  hers  with  a  gentle,  reassuring 
pressure.  "  Can't  you  see  that  I  do?  " 

She  let  her  hand  remain  in  his  for  a  moment,  and 
then  quietly  disengaged  it,  her  eyes  softly  grateful. 
He  was  the  first  to  speak  then.  "  Some  day,"  he 
ventured  smilingly,  "  you  must  tell  what  it  is  that 
troubles  you.  I  won't  ask  it  now.  But,  in  the  mean 
while,  maybe  I  can  do  something  to  help  you.  Is 
there  anything  I  can  tell  you  —  about  that  man,  for 
instance  —  my  uncle  Stanwood  ?  " 

There  was  much  that  he  might  tell  her,  but  with 
that  new  understanding  between  them,  the  sympathy 
he  had  shown  in  that  gentle  clasp  of  her  fingers,  she 
scarcely  dared  impose  on  it.  Even  her  own  desire 
to  find  out  about  herself  was  not  so  great  that  she 
would  willingly  risk  the  pain  it  might  give  him  to 
probe  the  wound  of  their  own  trouble.  But  he  seemed 
to  guess  her  feeling  —  the  reason  why  she  shook  her 
head. 

"  Tell  me,  is  it  about  Mrs.  Pinchin  ? "  he  haz 
arded.  "  About  her  and  my  uncle  ?  Yes,  I  thought 
so !  But  that 's  a  thing  we  'd  all  like  to  find  out. 
No,"  he  added  convincingly ;  "  until  you  said  you  'd 
seen  Mrs.  Pinchin  coming  down  the  steps  of  his 
house,  our  wildest  imagination  never  took  in  the  pos 
sibility  that  he  and  Mrs.  Pinchin  knew  each  other. 
Now  how  he  came  to  know  her  and  what  these  two 
persons  are  to  each  other  is  as  much  of  a  puzzle  as 
what  they  are  really  up  to.  Jove!  I  only  wish  I 
knew ! " 

136 


OIL  ON  TROUBLED  WATERS 

It  seemed  to  Corrie  that  she  was  doomed  to  an  ever 
lasting  hopelessness  in  trying  to  find  out  anything. 
Was  there  no  one  that  knew?  or  was  the  secret  to 
remain  forever  locked  grimly  in  Mrs.  Pinchin's 
breast?  The  utterly  hopeless  suggestion  came  to 
her  that  she  would  spend  the  rest  of  her  life  in  just- 
such  disappointments.  They  had  all  been  alike,  from 
now  back  to  the  time  when  she  had  talked  to  the 
brown-haired  boy  with  the  bread  and  jam.  Why 
had  fate  dragged  up  Mrs.  Pinchin  at  the  crucial  mo 
ment?  But  it  was  fate,  of  course,  the  fate  that  al 
ways  must  pursue  her.  Now,  if  Mrs.  Pinchin  had  not 
come  along  when  she  was  talking  to  the  brown-haired 
boy 

Corrie  looked  up  with  a  startled  little  exclamation. 

"  Mr.  Geikie !  oh,  how  stupid  of  me !  why,  of 
course!  There  was  a  boy  that  lived  in  your  house  — 
no,  I  have  n't  told  you  about  him  before  —  and  he 

had    brown    hair  —  thick,    wavy,    brown    hair,    and 
a » 

Corrie  halted  herself  in  time.  "  Do  you  remember 
my  saying  something  this  morning  about  a  maiden 
locked  up  in  an  ogre's  castle  and  how  a  Prince 
Charming  came  to  her  rescue?  " 

For  a  moment  the  young  man  looked  at  her 
thoughtfully,  and  then  his  hand  stole  to  the  tip  of  his 
nose  and  deliberately  felt  it. 

"  Yes,  and  I  have  a  very  distinct  remembrance  of 
your  saying  your  Prince  had  a  snub  nose.  I  wonder 
whether  you  could  possibly  mean  me?  "  he  inquired 
ruefully.  "  Is  it  really  as  bad  as  that?  " 

137 


CORRIE  WHO? 

Corrie,  laughing  and  blushing  together,  violently 
shook  her  head.  "  I  take  it  all  back !  But  listen !  " 
she  cried  a  little  excitedly,  "  don't  you  remember 
talking  to  me  through  the  back  fence?  Please  try 
to  remember.  It  was  when  I  was  a  little  girl.  I  lived 
in  that  house  behind  yours,  and  Mrs.  Pinchin  lived 
there,  too." 

He  looked  at  her  in  astonishment.  "  Well,  this  is 
news  to  me !  "  he  exclaimed ;  and  so  it  was,  as  Corrie 
realized,  when  she  recalled  he  had  not  been  present 
when  she  told  it  to  his  mother  and  Mr.  Biggamore. 
"  You  lived  there !  —  in  Uncle  Stanwood's  ?  I  wish 
you  'd  tell  me  about  it." 

"  No !  wait  a  moment,  won't  you  ?  Don't  you  re 
member  climbing  up  on  the  top  of  the  fence,  and 
looking  over?  Then  you  got  down  and  kicked  in  a 
loose  board,  and  I  was  dreadfully  frightened.  You 
had  a  slice  of  bread  and  jam.  Oh,  don't  you  re 
member?  You  gave  me  a  bite,  and  you  were  going 
to  tell  me  what  your  father  said,  but  Mrs.  Pinchin 
came  and  dragged  me  away.  Now!  oh,  can't  you 
remember?  " 

But  the  moment  the  question  had  been  spoken  she 
regretted  it  with  a  sudden,  awakening  terror.  For 
what  would  it  be  his  father  had  told  him?  As  well  as 
not,  it  might  entail  some  shameful  revelation  of  just 
what  she  dreaded  to  learn,  the  true  fact  of  her  origin, 
and  a  fact  so  embarrassing  that  it  might  hurt  him  to 
repeat  it.  Or  worse  than  that,  something  so  shame 
ful  that  he  would  not  dare  to  reveal  it  at  all!  A 
frantic  desire  to  warn  him  he  must  not  try  to  think 

138 


OIL  ON  TROUBLED  WATERS 

seized  her,  and  she  was  just  on  the  point  of  crying 
out  she  did  n't  care  to  know,  when  he  spoke. 

"  I  don't  remember  a  thing  about  it,  Miss  Rob 
inson,"  he  declared,  puckering  his  brow  thoughtfully. 
"  It  was  something  my  father  told  me,  you  say?  "  he 
repeated  gravely,  and  there  came  into  his  eyes  then, 
as  she  saw,  the  same  look  of  shadowy  pain  that  had 
clouded  his  mother's  face  when  she  spoke  of  the  man 
long  dead.  "  You  see,  my  father  died  many  years 
ago.  It  was  just  a  day  or  so  after  we  came  to  this 
house.  He  and  I  were  alone  there  a  day  or  so  before 
mother  came,  and  I  must  have  forgotten  what  he  told 
me."  There  he  paused,  and  looked  away  still  more 
thoughtfully. 

Beyond,  at  the  street  end,  the  city's  voice  raised 
itself  in  a  nearer,  louder  murmur;  they  were  ap 
proaching  Eighth  Street,  the  Elevated,  the  surface 
cars,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  busy  life  that  trafficked 
noisily  up  and  down  the  crowded  thoroughfare  of 
Sixth  Avenue.  An  L  train,  rolling  northward,  gath 
ered  way  from  the  station,  and  rumbling  off  on  the 
high,  stilted  trestle,  sent  discordant,  clanking  echoes 
beating  back  and  forth  among  the  crowding  walls 
of  Jefferson  Market  and  the  brick  buildings  on  the 
other  side.  A  surface  car,  stalled  behind  a  line  of 
trucks  and  delivery  wagons,  clanged  and  clacked  and 
clamored  for  the  right  of  way;  there  was  noise  and 
activity,  the  town's  turmoil,  all  around ;  and  even  the 
most  unconcerned  of  the  wayfarers  coming  out  of 
the  quiet  side  streets  into  that  channel  of  the  city's 
life,  seemed  to  catch,  on  the  instant,  that  same  hurry 

139 


CORRIE  WHO? 

and  bustle,  and  to  be  quickened  by  it  until  they,  too, 
unconsciously  hurried. 

But  these  two,  absorbed  only  in  themselves,  seemed 
remotely  distanced  from  that  busy  world  so  close 
beyond.  "  The  fact  is,"  said  he,  after  a  long  pause, 
"  my  father  killed  himself,  and  it  was  because  of  this 
uncle  of  mine,  Stanwood  Geikie." 

"  Oh,  how  dreadful ! "  uttered  the  girl,  shocked 
both  by  the  words  and  the  resentful  tone  in  which 
they  were  spoken.  "  Oh,  how  terrible !  " 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  in  the  same,  bitter,  accusing 
voice,  "  Stanwood  Geikie  tricked  and  ruined  him, 
and  my  father  shot  himself.  I  thought  everyone 
knew ;  though,  of  course,  you  could  n't.  You  were 
too  young  then.  But  it  was  n't  because  he  had  lost  his 
money !  No !  "  he  laughed  harshly,  "  that  was  n't 
the  cause.  And  my  mother  — » well,  you  can  see 
what  it 's  done  to  her.  She  's  never  gotten  over  it." 

His  voice  had  dropped  into  a  quiet  simplicity  of 
tone  after  that  first  vindictive  utterance,  and  its 
quietness  shocked  her  even  more.  Once  again,  she 
laid  a  hand  impulsively  on  his  arm;  for  in  the  mo 
ment  the  girl  realized  how  cruelly,  even  though  un 
wittingly,  she  must  have  torn  open  the  scar  of  their 
unforgettable  trouble.  "  Oh,  how  sorry  I  am !  "  she 
whispered.  "  And  to  think  how  I  must  have  hurt 
your  mother !  " 

"  Mother  will  forgive  you ;  you  could  n't  have 
known,"  he  answered  gently.  "  But  this  uncle  of 

mine "  He  paused  long  enough  to  control 

himself.  "  Well,  the  point  is,  that  even  after  my 

140 


OIL  ON  TROUBLED  WATERS 

father's  death,  my  uncle  would  n't  let  us  alone.  All 
my  mother's  money  was  gone  —  yes,  and  most  of 
Uncle  Phil's  too;  we  were  nearly  cleaned  out,  you 
know.  So  we  had  to  move  into  this  little  house  of 
ours.  Well,  we  went  on  living  there  after  father's 
death,  and  then  one  day  we  awoke  and  found  Uncle 
Stanwood  camped  down  right  at  our  elbows.  Mother 
and  Uncle  Phil  nearly  died  of  fright  when  they  found 
it  out  —  yes,  they  were  nearly  beside  themselves,  I 
think;  and  really  you  can't  wonder  at  it,  if  you 
take  into  account  what  kind  of  man  my  Uncle  Stan- 
wood  is.  They  thought  he  might  do  something  to 
me ;  why,  I  could  n't  tell  you,  nor  they  either,  per 
haps,  should  one  ask  them.  But  why  my  Uncle  Stan- 
wood  came  to  live  there,  right  next  to  us,  or  why  he 
has  watched  and  spied  and  prowled  around  us  so  for 
years,  no  one  seems  able  to  understand.  Mother  be 
lieves  we  shall  find  out,  some  day,  and  she  shudders 
every  time  she  thinks  of  it." 

"  But  has  he  never  done  anything,  —  ever  tried  to 
get  at  you,  or  anything  like  that  ?  "  asked  Corrie, 
breathlessly.  "Aren't  you  afraid  of  him?" 

"  I  ?  Not  for  myself.  He  's  tried  to  speak  to  me 
two  or  three  times  —  oh,  much  more  than  that  — 
dozens  of  times  when  I  was  a  boy.  When  he  'd  see  me 
coming,  he  'd  begin  to  smile  and  get  ready  to  pat 
me  on  the  head,  and  then  one  time  he  offered  me 
money.  Jove,  j  ust  think  of  it !  the  scoundrel  handed 
me  out  a  dollar,  and  a  dollar  looked  as  big  to  me  in 
those  days  —  why,  as  big  as  the  moon.  I  was  only 
fourteen  then,  and  there  was  n't  much  money  left  for 

141 


CORRIE  WHO? 

me  to  throw  around  —  no,  I  should  say  not.  But  I 
took  his  dollar." 

"  You  took  it !  "  cried  Corrie,  the  unflattering  com 
ment  springing  to  her  lips  in  her  astonishment. 

He  smiled  at  her  quietly.  "  Yes,  I  took  it,  and  if 
you  should  ever  see  my  Uncle  Stanwood,  look  closely 
at  the  corner  of  his  mouth.  I  was  only  a  boy  then,  but 
I  was  a  pretty  vigorous  boy,  pretty  hot  tempered 
and  able  to  understand,  too,  some  of  the  things  that 
had  happened.  Yes,  I  took  his  dollar,  but  I  gave  it 
back  to  him,  too.  I  —  but  I  won't  speak  of  that  — 
I  should  n't  have  mentioned  it  at  all." 

"  But  I  wish  to  know,"  persisted  the  girl.  "  I  wish 
you  'd  tell  me." 

"  There  is  n't  anything  to  tell  —  very  little  except 
that  he  never  offered  me  money  again." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?    You  gave  it  back  to  him  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  pegged  it  at  his  head,  and  then  I  cut  and 
ran  for  it  as  hard  as  I  could  up  the  street.  He 
started  after  me,  too ;  but  then,  he  never  stood  a 
chance;  and  when  I  looked  back  he  was  holding  a 
hand  to  his  lip  and  shaking  his  fist.  '  I  '11  fix  you  for 
this,  you  young  whelp !  "  he  roared,  and  shook  his  fist 
again.  But  he  never  bothered  me  after  that,  though 
Uncle  Phil  didn't  let  me  off  so  easily." 

"Why — why,  what  did  he  do?"  questioned  Corrie. 

"  Do  ?  Well,  he  pulled  my  ear,  if  you  really  care 
to  know.  He  was  furious  because  I  had  stopped  even 
long  enough  to  let  Stanwood  Geikie  hand  me  the  dol 
lar.  My!  but  Uncle  Phil  was  in  a  terrible  stew.  I 
thought  he  'd  pull  out  all  his  front  hair  before  he  got 

142 


OIL  ON  TROUBLED  WATERS 

through  storming  at  me.  '  Gave  you  a  dollar,  hey  ?  ' 
he  exploded,  and  went  stamping  out  of  the  room,  only 
to  stamp  back  again  shortly.  '  You  pegged  it  at  his 
head,  did  you?  '  he  roared,  and  I  hung  my  head  and 
said  I  had.  *  Outrageous ! '  he  burst  out,  and  went 
clattering  off,  only  to  clatter  back  again  a  few 
minutes  later.  '  Sure  he  hit  him? '  he  demanded. 
'  Did  you  now,  or  are  you  just  Major  Bigtalk  mak 
ing  up  a  good  story  ?  '  But  I  knew  what  I  was  talk 
ing  about.  '  Hit  him  in  the  face,  did  it  ?  Well ! '  he 
exclaimed,  and  then  my  Uncle  Phil  came  as  near 
swearing  as  I  ever  knew  him  to  come.  Want  to  know 
what  he  said,  Miss  Robinson  ? "  inquired  Phil,  a 
twinkle  in  his  eyes. 

"  No,  no !  you  must  n't.  I  won't  listen !  "  cried 
Corrie,  covering  her  two  pink  ears  with  two  slender 
hands.  But  young  Mr.  Geikie  rudely  ignored  her 
protest.  "He  said  — Uncle  Phil  said,  *  Well,  I'll 
be  j  iggered !  I  '11  be  eternally  j  iggered ! '  With 
that,  my  uncle  put  his  hand  into  his  pockets, 
stuffed  a  whole  handful  of  silver  into  my  hat,  and 
scowling  terribly,  rushed  out  and  slammed  the 
front  door  behind  him.  Yes,  there  was  a  good 
reason  why  my  Uncle  Stanwood  never  tackled  me 
again." 

"  Of  course  he  would  n't,"  laughed  Corrie ;  "  not 
after  you  'd  thrown  things  at  his  head." 

"  But  it  was  n't  that  altogether,"  he  corrected. 
"  I  think  it  was  more  because  Uncle  Phil  took  the  law 
into  his  own  hands.  I  found  out  later  where  he  'd 
gone  when  he  flung  himself  out  and  slammed  the  door 

143 


CORRIE  WHO? 

behind  him.  He  looks  meek  and  mild  enough,  ordi 
narily,  but  I  can  tell  you,  too,  that  Uncle  Phil  does  n't 
lack  sand  when  it 's  necessary  —  not  a  bit  of  it ! 
Why,  he  marched  straight  around  the  corner  to  my 
Uncle  Stanwood's  and  rang  the  bell,  and  when  the 
servant  opened  the  door,  Uncle  Phil  brushed  past  her, 
and  went  right  up  the  stairs  to  the  man's  room. 
Mother  told  me  that  much,  and  that  Uncle  Phil 
warned  him  to  let  me  alone ;  but  how  he  warned  him 
or  what  he  said  and  did,  I  can  only  surmise.  I  know, 
though,  that  Uncle  Stanwood  never  bothered  me 
again ;  no,  he  never  so  much  as  noticed  me  after  that, 
unless  it  was  occasionally  to  grin  at  me  in  that  sar 
donic,  supercilious  way  of  his." 

"  But  did  you  never  learn,"  asked  Corrie,  "  why  he 
tried  so  hard  to  make  friends  with  you?  " 

"  No,  it  was  just  some  whim  of  his,  some  deviltry, 
perhaps.  I  suppose  if  I  'd  listened  to  him  he  would 
have  tried  to  turn  me  into  the  kind  of  man  he  is 
himself.  After  that  business  of  the  dollar  and  what 
I  'd  shown  I  thought  of  him,  we  rather  hoped  he  'd 
move  out  of  the  neighborhood.  But  he  stayed  on, 
year  after  year,  and,  after  a  while,  we  learned  he 
owned  that  house.  He  'd  bought  it,  or  he  'd  got  it 
away  from  the  owners  by  some  swindle  or  other  — 
some  way  in  which  he  is  clever  enough.  It  belonged 
to  the  Tollabees,  the  same  people  from  whom  we 
bought  our  own  house." 

Corrie,  her  face  aglow  with  sudden  excitement,  in 
terrupted  him  with  an  exclamation.  "  Tollabee !  I 
know  that  name.  Tell  me ! "  she  exclaimed,  "  who 

144 


OIL  ON  TROUBLED  WATERS 

were   those   people?      Tell   me   what   you   know   of 
them!" 

For  that  was  the  name  that  had  been  scrawled  in 
a  boyish  hand  on  the  fly  leaf  of  the  book  of  fairy 
tales : 

"  When  this  you  see, 
Remember  me. 

R.  tollabee,  his  Book." 

"  Did  the  Tollabees  own  that  house?  "  she  cried 
breathlessly.  "  I  wish,  if  you  know,  that  you  'd  tell 
me  about  them.  Who  were  they  ?  " 

He  regarded  her  for  a  moment,  perplexed  by  her 
growing  excitement.  "  Yes,  I  know  something  about 
the  family,  though  we  have  n't  heard  of  them  for 
years.  See  here,  now,  Miss  Robinson,  don't  tell  me 
they  have  anything  to  do  with  this  Pinchin  business  — 
have  they  ?  "  He,  too,  looked  a  little  startled  when 
she  nodded  her  head.  "  Do  you  really  mean  it? 
Phew!  "  His  exclamation  of  wonder  was  expressive. 
"  Very  well,  then,  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  know  first,  and 
then  you  've  got  to  tell  me  what  you  know.  In  the.  first 
place,  Margaret  Tollabee  was  my  Uncle  Stanwood's 
wife  —  or  is  supposed  to  be,  if  she 's  still  living. 
Now  how  does  that  strike  you?  Does  it  shed  any 
light  on  the  subject?  " 

Corrie  answered  him  as  calmly  as  the  circumstances 
would  permit.  "  I  don't  know  yet.  But  was  she  re 
lated  in  any  way  to  an  R.  Tollabee  ?  I  know  only  the 
name." 

Phil  nodded  slowly.  "  You  must  mean  Randolph 
10  145 


CORHIE  WHO? 

Tollabee  —  and,  well  —  why  I  think  I  '11  have  to  tell 
you  the  rest  of  it.  The  truth  is,  he  was  a  friend  of 
my  father's ;  one  of  his  closest  friends,"  he  added 
painfully.  "  After  my  father  died  —  killed  himself, 
Miss  Robinson,  they  said  my  father  had  ruined  him, 
too.  My  Uncle  Stanwood  spread  the  lie ;  we  've  found 
out  that  much,  anyway,  and  he  did  it  to  save  himself. 
Of  course,  you  can  make  up  your  mind  what  kind  of 
man  it  is  that  lies  about  his  own  brother  in  that 
fashion  —  and  when  he  's  dead  and  in  the  grave,  too. 
Well,  he  '11  have  to  settle  for  that,  some  day." 

So  here  was  something  else  to  add  to  the  tangle. 
Corrie's  mind  tried  to  take  it  all  in,  but,  at  the  best, 
her  conclusions  were  of  the  vaguest.  First  Mrs. 
Pinchin,  then  Stanwood  Geikie,  and  now  the  Tolla- 
bees,  —  wheels  within  wheels,  and  all  buzzing  com 
fortably.  She  recalled  in  the  moment's  confusion 
Mrs.  Pinchin's  own  excitement  over  the  name,  her 
emotion  at  the  time  when  Corrie,  as  a  child,  had  gone 
to  her  —  "I  want  my  Tollabee  book,  Mrs.  Pinchin." 
Phil  seemed  to  read  in  her  face  some  sign  of  her 
reflection. 

"  Do  you  happen  to  know  anything  about  Ran 
dolph  Tollabee? "  he  asked  alertly,  "  and  has  it 
really  anything  to  do  with  Mrs.  Pinchin?  " 

She  told  him  now.  With  no  effort  to  conceal  any 
thing,  she  told  of  the  book,  and  of  her  childhood,  and 
of  Mrs.  Pinchin's  swift  confusion  at  the  mention  of 
the  name.  Nothing  was  omitted  but  the  grave  ques 
tion  of  Corrie's  origin ;  she  was  still  unprepared  to 
confess  that  openly  —  to  him,  last  of  all. 

146 


OIL  ON  TROUBLED  WATERS 

"  Queer,  is  n't  it?  "  he  observed  thoughtfully,  bit 
ing  his  lip.  "  I  don't  know  how  much  it  conveys  to 
you,  but  to  us  who  know  —  well,  the  least  I  can  say 
is  that  it 's  pretty  significant." 

To  Corrie  it  seemed  quite  as  significant,  or  rather, 
suggestive.  "  Don't  you  suppose,"  she  faltered  hesi 
tatingly,  "  that  I  could  find  Miss  Tollabee,  your 
Uncle  Stanwood's  wife  ?  Has  n't  anything  been 
heard  of  her  lately?  She  might  know  something." 

He  frowned  thoughtfully  before  he  answered.  "I've 
been  trying  to  remember  what  became  of  her,"  he 
said  slowly ;  "  but  I  think  she  and  her  child  —  there 
was  one,  if  I  recall  rightly  —  I  don't  believe  they  've 
been  heard  of  for  years.  My  mother  never  knew  any 
of  the  Tollabees  but  Randolph.  Margaret  was  only 
his  step-sister." 

They  were  at  the  Avenue  crossing  now,  the  square, 
brick  tower  of  Jefferson  Market  looming  high  above, 
and  the  L  trains  rattling  along  the  ugly  overhead 
trestle.  Many  in  the  crowd  stared  curiously  at  the 
two  —  the  girl  and  the  young  man ;  she  flushed  with 
excitement,  and  he  grave  and  concerned.  But  they 
gave  no  heed.  The  tangled  skein,  though  still 
knotted  and  snarled,  seemed  in  a  fair  way  to  be  un 
raveled,  or,  at  least  to  be  reaching  a  point  where 
some  dexter  hand  might  attack  it  with  some  cer 
tainty  of  clearing  up  the  snarl.  "  Well,  we  can't  do 
any  more  to-day  to  clear  up  this  mess,"  said  Phil. 
He  bit  his  lip  again,  and  looked  down  at  her  curiously, 
almost  attentively. 

"  No ;  and  I  must  be  getting  home,"  added  Corrie, 
147 


CORRIE  WHO? 

glancing  up  at  the  tower  clock.     "  I  had  no  idea  it 
was  so  late.     I  wonder  what  Mrs.  Pinchin  will  say." 

He  stared  at  her  again,  a  little  uncertainly,  after 
he  had  guided  her  across  the  street  to  the  stairs  of 
the  L  station.  "  You  '11  come  back  to  the  house 
again,  won't  you?  "  he  asked,  and  then  added  slowly: 
"  You  see,  I  think  mother  will  want  you  to  come  back. 
Listen !  if  anything  happens  to  you  —  at  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin's  I  mean  —  you  '11  come  to  us,  won't  you.  Of 
course,"  he  went  on  guardedly,  "  nothing  is  likely  to 
happen,  but  if  it  does,  I  hope  you  '11  send  for  me." 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Pinchin  is  n't  likely  to  eat  me ! " 
laughed  Corrie,  lightly,  and  at  her  amusement  he 
again  looked  at  her  curiously  —  so  curiously  that 
the  smile  faded.  "  Why,  what  is  it?  "  she  asked  ner 
vously,  "  do  you  know  anything  about  Mrs.  Pinchin 
you  have  n't  told  me  ?  " 

"  No ;  it 's  not  anything  I  know,"  he  answered, 
still  cautiously,  "  but  I  've  begun  to  suspect  some 
thing.  I  want  you  to  promise  me  something  —  you 
will,  won't  you,  Corrie?"  Corrie!  her  heart 
thumped  at  that,  though  she  said  nothing  to  rebuke 
him.  "  If  you  need  a  friend,  or  someone  to  go  to, 
why,  I  hope  you  '11  think  of  us." 

He  took  her  hand,  and  this  time  without  attempt 
ing  to  draw  away,  she  let  her  fingers  lie  in  his  clasp. 
"  Yes,  I  promise,"  she  answered,  smiling  at  him ; 
"  and  it 's  very  nice  to  have  a  friend,  too." 

He  still  held  her  hand,  smiling  once  more.  "  Tell 
me  something,  won't  you?  "  he  asked,  trying  to  hide 
the  dancing  light  in  his  eyes. 

148 


OIL  ON  TROUBLED  WATERS 

Corrie  laughed  again.  "  That  depends.  What 
is  it?  " 

She  felt  his  fingers  tighten  a  little  on  hers. 
"  You  're  going  to  be  frightfully  angry  at  me  now," 
he  warned,  twinkling.  "  Last  night  —  at  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin's  —  why  did  you  try  to  make  yourself  look  so  ? 
You  know  what  I  mean." 

Corrie  burst  into  a  little  ripple  of  amusement  and 
dragged  her  hand  away.  Then  she  blushed. 
"  Dowdy,  I  suppose  you  mean.  You  would  be  dowdy, 
too,"  she  answered,  "  if  you  were  I  —  and  are  n't  you 
just  a  little  impertinent?  " 

"  You  have  n't  told  me  why,  yet,"  he  persisted, 
eyes  still  dancing. 

"You're  just  as  horrid  as  those  other  men,"  she 
declared,  outraged,  and  there  he  burst  into  a  laugh. 

"  I  thought  so !  But  you  can't  blame  them  for 
staring  —  when  you  're  so  pretty !  " 

Corrie,  blushing  furiously  now,  fled  up  the  steps 
to  the  station  away  from  him. 


149 


CHAPTER   IX 

Carrie's  return.  —  Miss  Maria's  nerves  and  Mrs.  Pinchin's 
ready  remedy.  —  The  item  in  the  personal  column.  —  Miss 
Maria's  defiant  plea.  —  Mrs.  Pinchin  reads  the  newspaper. 

—  Her  forced  composure  in  the  face  of  trying  circumstances. 

—  Miss  Maria  varies  her  habit  of  weeping  by  falling  in 
a  faint.  —  The  astonishing  keepsake  hung  around  Miss 
Maria's  neck.  —  Her  terror  on  regaining  her  senses.  — 
Phil  telephones. 

TT^ILLED  with  this  new-found  knowledge,  alive  to 
•*•  the  possible  significance  of  her  bewildering  suc 
cession  of  discoveries,  Corrie  hurried  homeward  to 
Mrs.  Pinchin's.  She  knew  what  she  might  expect 
when  she  reached  there  —  a  scene,  perhaps,  a  blast 
of  Mrs.  Pinchin's  vituperative  rage,  or,  at  the  very 
least,  a  berating  from  Miss  Maria  in  her  most  acid 
tones;  yet,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  Corrie  felt 
no  fear  of  what  might  happen,  no  matter  how  great 
their  anger.  What  she  had  found  out  had  armed 
her  with  determined  self-reliance;  and  though  she 
still  lacked  a  very  clear  idea  of  what  her  discoveries 
meant  to  herself,  she  was,  at  least,  sure  that  she  held 
a  powerful  trump  card  to  play  over  Mrs.  Pinchin's 
lead.  If  worst  came  to  the  worst,  she  would  confront 
Mrs.  Pinchin  with  what  she  had  learned,  and  then  she 
should  see  what  happened. 

But  no  —     As  the  L  train  rumbled  northward, 
she    sat    reflecting,    and    reflection   showed   her   the 

150 


THE  ITEM  IN  THE  PERSONAL  COLUMN 

unwisdom  of  such  a  course.  No,  she  must  do  nothing 
like  that.  She  must  guard  her  secret  craftily,  await 
ing  the  moment  when  it  should  prove  of  a  real  ad 
vantage.  To  let  Mrs.  Pinchin  know  now  that  she 
had  learned,  if  not  all,  at  least  a  hint  of  her  singular 
history,  might  become  a  blunder  never  to  be  repaired. 
For  Corrie,  with  a  wisdom  bred  of  long  experience, 
could  only  acknowledge  to  herself  that  in  point  of 
cunning,  craftiness,  even  determination,  she  was  far 
outmatched  by  Mrs.  Pinchin,  and  there  was  no  tell 
ing  what  that  determined  lady  might  do  to  balk  her 
were  she  to  find  out  what  Corrie  knew.  No,  she  must 
bide  her  time;  hold  her  tongue;  wait  to  play  her 
trump  card,  when  the  moment  came  to  turn  the  win 
ning  trick. 

She  reached  the  door  and  rang.  Excuses,  per 
haps,  were  in  order;  but  Corrie  had  none.  Let  them 
make  a  scene,  if  they  wished;  she  was  too  tired  to 
care  much.  A  faint  hope  momentarily  encouraged 
her  —  the  possibility  of  reaching  her  room  unde 
tected.  If  she  could  n't  —  well 

It  was  Miss  Maria  who  opened  the  front  door  — 
Miss  Maria,  peering  forth  nervously  expectant. 
Many  hours  had  passed  since  she  had  last  laid  eyes 
on  Corrie  —  indeed,  it  was  now  after  two  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon  —  and  though  Miss  Maria  must  have 
enjoyed  an  ample  opportunity  for  nursing  whatever 
wrath  she  felt,  it  bespoke  itself  now,  only  in  a  small 
ruffling  of  her  brows.  "  Oh,  it 's  you,  is  it?  "  she 
commented,  a  scarcely  perceptible  mockery  in  her 
tone,  "  and  where  have  you  been,  may  I  ask?  " 

151 


CORRIE  WHO? 

Corrie  answered  as  briefly.  "  Down  town,  Miss 
Maria.  I  went  on  an  errand  —  for  myself." 

"  An  errand  —  an  errand  —  for  yourself,"  echoed 
Miss  Maria,  dispiritedly.  "  Well  it 's  no  concern  of 
mine.  Mrs.  Pinchin  can  do  as  she  likes  —  yes.  It 's 
no  concern  of  mine,  and  if  you " 

But  the  remainder  of  what  Miss  Maria  had  to  say 
droned  off  into  an  indistinguishable,  almost  inaudible 
murmur,  as  she  shambled  toward  the  stairs.  So 
that  ordeal  was  over!  It  was  easier,  far  easier  even 
than  Corrie  had  hoped. 

Slowly  she  went  on  her  way  to  her  room.  Already 
she  felt  the  reaction  from  the  day's  excitement;  she 
was  weary,  fagged  out,  depressed;  and  after  taking 
off  her  hat  and  jacket,  she  dropped  limply  into  the 
nearest  chair,  and  folding  her  hands  together,  stared 
thoughtfully  at  the  wall.  Where  was  it  all  to  end, 
and  when?  What  was  she  to  learn,  too,  once  this 
tangle  in  her  life  had  unraveled  itself?  A  deep  sigh 
escaped  her,  and  then,  with  a  little  flutter  of  her  heart 
and  an  awakening,  softening  light  in  her  eyes,  there 
flashed  into  the  girl's  mind  anew  the  memory  of  that 
moment  with  the  boy,  the  brief  seconds  when  he  had 
held  her  hand  in  his,  and,  for  the  first  time,  uncon 
sciously  had  uttered  her  name.  Corrie!  That  name, 
at  least,  held  some  significance  now  —  something, 
as  if  it  had  been  given  to  her  with  a  real  baptismal 
—  a  meaning  to  dignify  it  ever  in  her  mihd !  Then 
a  furious  blush  mounted  to  her  cheeks,  and,  after  a 
quick,  conscious  glance  at  the  mirror  on  her  dressing 
table,  a  glance  that  added  only  to  her  confusion,  she 

152 


THE  ITEM  IN  THE  PERSONAL  COLUMN 

leaped  up  from  her  chair  and  stepped  out  into  the 
hall. 

The  house  was  silent.  Corrie,  tiptoeing  to  the 
balustrade,  listened  for  a  moment  and  then  opened 
a  door  at  her  right.  It  led  into  the  dark,  stuffy  gar 
ret  where  for  years  Mrs.  Pinchin  had  stored  the  dis 
carded  odds  and  ends  of  her  many  possessions ;  yet 
dark  and  crowded  as  it  was,  Corrie  moved  confidently 
into  its  darkness. 

At  each  side  of  the  doorway  the  Pinchin  trunks 
raised  a  double  wall  —  fat,  immense,  brass-bound, 
portly  trunks,  the  kind  that  just  such  a  person  as 
Mrs.  Pinchin  would  affect.  Beyond  them  the  garret 
was  stacked  from  the  floor  to  the  ceiling  with  the  in 
discriminate  flotsam  and  jetsam  of  her  housekeeping 
—  broken-down  chairs  and  tables,  superannuated  bed 
steads  and  bureaus,  decrepit  towel  racks  and  picture 
frames,  rolls  of  rugs  and  carpets,  moth-eaten  and 
threadbare;  and,  with  it  all,  set  about  on  the  floor 
and  on  bureau  and  table-tops,  a  perfect  infirmary  of 
chinaware  and  bric-a-brac.  In  that  alone  one  might 
have  calculated  to  a  nicety  the  various  eras  of  Mrs. 
Pinchin's  domestic  history,  though  it  was  now  for  no 
such  a  purpose  that  Corrie  threaded  her  way  among 
its  dust-laid,  narrow  channels,  making  for  a  distant 
corner.  There  the  cracked  and  blistered  mirror  of  a 
dressing  table  gleamed  like  a  beacon  to  guide  her, 
and  reaching  down  beneath  it,  Corrie  pulled  open  its 
lowest  drawer. 

A  bulky  bundle  wrapped  in  yellowing  newspaper 
met  her  hand.  She  drew  it  forth  from  its  hiding 

153 


CORRIE  WHO? 

place,  and  after  carefully  closing  the  drawer  again, 
Corrie  tiptoed  back  to  her  room.  There  she  stripped 
off  the  wrappings,  and  drawing  a  chair  to  the  window, 
began  slowly  turning  over  the  pages  of  this  dearest 
possession  of  hers  —  the  fat,  brass-bound,  leather 
portrait  album. 

One  by  one,  the  hours  passed;  darkness  fell  on 
the  city.  From  her  high  window  the  girl  could  look 
southward  over  the  sweep  of  roofs  and  chimneys  far 
down  into  the  heart  of  the  striving,  big  and  impul 
sive,  thoughtless,  careless  town.  Somewhere  within 
it  —  somewhere  within  its  maze  of  streets  and  avenues 
and  boulevards  —  somewhere  within  that  countless 
myriad  of  houses  that  raised  their  blank,  untelling 
faces  beside  the  way  —  somewhere  there  lived  and 
breathed  and  knew,  perhaps,  the  ones  in  whose  breast 
was  locked  the  key  to  that  mystery  she  longed  to 
solve  —  the  secret  of  herself.  But  where  was  she  to 
look  —  where  to  turn  her  face,  expectantly  or  with 
hope?  She  stared  down  at  the  sprawling  city,  its 
length  and  breadth  lost  now  in  the  gathering  dusk; 
and  out  of  the  darkness,  its  lights,  growing  like  the 
sky's  stellar  host,  winked  back  at  her  merrily,  bright 
and  twinkling  and  careless,  dancing  in  the  crisp 
spring  air  as  if  they  jeered  her  in  mockery.  If  she 
had  friends,  a  single  friend  —  But  Corrie  had  no 
friends.  Mrs.  Pinchin  had  deprived  her  of  that  — 
denied  her  even  the  least  of  them  —  denied  her  that 
as  she  had  deprived  the  child  of  her  childhood.  No 
friends  —  no  one  —  not  even 

Pale,  transfigured,  her  shadowy  eyes  filled  with 
154 


THE  ITEM  IN  THE  PERSONAL  COLUMN 

deeper,  graver  shadow,  the  girl  arose  and  stared  long 
through  her  window  southward  at  the  darkening 
city.  Somewhere  within  its  heart  —  somewhere 
there  far  down  among  its  streets  —  yes,  after  all, 
there  was  one  —  one,  indeed  —  really  one  had  taken 
pity.  Slowly,  all  unconscious  of  herself,  she  stretched 
forth  her  hands  together.  "  Friend  —  friend !  Be 
that  always  —  my  friend  —  dear  friend !  "  she  whis 
pered,  a  faint  smile  playing  on  her  lips.  "  One  friend 
—  yes !  "  Then  she  turned  away. 

Long  afterward,  the  girl  arose  in  the  dark  and 
lighted  her  table  lamp  —  an  oil  lamp,  since  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin  admitted  no  such  extravagance  for  her  paid 
companion  as  the  use  of  gas.  Sitting  down  beside 
the  light,  she  picked  up  the  album  again,  and  began 
to  wrap  it  up.  A  step  sounded  on  the  stair;  she 
paused,  listening.  The  step  drew  nearer ;  she  thrust 
the  book  on  the  table,  her  heart  beating  the  instant's 
alarm.  Mrs.  Pinchin  —  yes !  The  door  flew  open 
and  there  she  stood  —  Mrs.  Pinchin  with  her  cane 
uplifted,  leveled  like  an  accusing  finger.  Thus  came 
Mrs.  Pinchin,  fired  with  an  ugly  wrath.  "  You ! " 
she  cried.  "You!" 

But  out  of  this  dramatic  event,  as  dramatic  as  any 
in  the  eventful  day,  Corrie  obtained  one  piece  of 
knowledge,  at  least,  that  became  of  immediate  advan 
tage.  It  was  the  knowledge  that  Mrs.  Pinchin  no 
longer  dared  treat  her  as  she  had  treated  her  when  a 
child.  Furthermore,  Mrs.  Pinchin's  quick  surrender 
to  her  threat  that  Corrie  would  leave,  assured  Corrie 
she  held  another  trump  card  —  though  why,  she 

155 


CORRIE  WHO? 

could  n't  decide.  But  that  Mrs.  Pinchin  really  feared 
something  like  this  was  evident,  obvious  even  though 
there  were  no  more  explanation  of  the  cause  than 
there  was  to  the  other  perplexities  that  had  crowded 
together  in  the  day.  Whatever  the  reason,  it  gave 
added  strength  to  her  confidence.  For,  once  that  she 
had  shown  fear,  Mrs.  Pinchin  was  no  longer  so 
terribly  to  be  feared. 

"  No,  Mrs.  Pinchin,"  Corrie  had  said  quietly, 
"  you  know  who  I  am.  Some  day  —  on  your  death 
bed,  perhaps  —  some  day  you  will  tell  me.  I  shall 
not  leave  you  till  then." 

Then,  after  that  encounter,  came  the  further  re 
action.  The  door  closed  on  Mrs.  Pinchin's  depart 
ing  figure ;  the  girl  turned,  drew  her  breath  sharply, 
and  all  her  courage  running  to  the  dregs,  she  threw 
herself  on  her  bed  and  gave  way  to  weakening, 
relieving  tears.  Long  afterward  she  arose,  un 
dressed,  and  crept  down  among  the  covers.  Sleep  — 
oh,  if  she  could  sleep,  and  in  that  find  forgetfulness ! 
Once  more,  in  the  dark,  Corrie  sat  up  in  her  bed  and 
pressed  her  feverish  hands  to  her  hot  and  throbbing 
temples.  Corrie  Who?  and  Corrie  What  ?  Could  she 
never,  never  learn? 

Downstairs  in  her  room  Mrs  Pinchin,  armed  with 
a  bottle  of  smelling-salts,  sat  propped  up  in  her  own 
bed.  Miss  Maria,  white  and  shifty-eyed,  sat  beside 
her,  her  spare  figure  gauntly  outlined  in  her  cotton 
nightdress,  her  hair  screwed  up  into  an  attenuated 
pigtail,  and  all  the  more  grotesque,  homely  and  un- 

156 


THE  ITEM  IN  THE  PERSONAL  COLUMN 

appealing  in  her  decollete.  Staring  through  her 
spectacles  at  Mrs.  Pinchin,  who  was  holding  the  smell 
ing-salts  first  to  one  nostril  and  then  to  the  other 
and  snuffing  and  sniffing  absorbedly,  Miss  Maria 
suddenly  burst  into  tears. 

"  Judie  —  oh,  please,  please,  Judie,  won't  you  tell 
me  what  we  're  going  to  do  ?  " 

Mrs.  Pinchin  removed  the  salts  from  her  nose. 
"  Here,  you  stop  that !  "  she  ordered  truculently ; 
"  if  you  ain't  got  any  spunk  of  your  own,  I  ain't 
going  to  let  you  make  me  miserable.  Get  out  of  here 
—  do  you  hear  me  ?  " 

The  door  closed  on  Miss  Maria's  abject  figure,  and 
leaning  over  to  the  table  beside  the  bed,  Mrs.  Pinchin 
helped  herself  to  a  glass  of  sherry  and  a  vanilla 
wafer.  Guzzling  and  grunting,  overwrought,  irri 
tated  even  in  that  moment  of  grateful  self-indul 
gence,  she  gulped  down  the  sherry  noisily,  set  the 
glass  on  the  stand,  and  then  with  a  last  final  scowl 
of  annoyance,  reached  up  and  turned  out  the  gas. 
"  Hunh ! "  she  grunted,  and  reposed  herself  to 
slumber. 

Morning  came  —  another  day.  Throughout  the 
long,  wakeful  night  Corrie  had  tossed  in  fitful 
dreams.  Glad  of  the  dawn,  at  last,  she  arose  long 
before  either  Mrs.  Pinchin  or  Miss  Maria  were 
awake,  and  dressing  hastily,  made  her  way  quietly 
down  the  stairs. 

Maggie,  the  surly  housemaid,  had  just  finished 
sweeping  the  drawing-room  and  hall.  She  acknowl- 

157 


CORRIE  WHO? 

edged  Corrie's  good  morning  with  her  usual  grumpi- 
ness,  and  picking  up  the  dustpan  and  broom,  clumped 
away  down  the  passage  to  the  basement  stairs.  Cor- 
rie  wandered  aimlessly  about  the  silent  rooms,  won 
dering  how  long  it  would  be  before  she  could  hope 
for  breakfast,  and  she  was  still  wondering  when  she 
heard  Maggie  toiling  up  the  stairs  again.  The  maid 
appeared  to  be  in  a  less  surly,  offensive  mood. 
"  Wad  ye  like  a  cup  o'  coffee?  "  she  asked  almost 
civilly,  "  and  the  bit  av  a  roll  to  it  ? "  Corrie 
thanked  her  gratefully,  and  presently  Maggie  re 
turned  with  a  tray.  Setting  it  down  on  the  dining- 
room  table,  she  waited  until  Corrie  had  seated  herself, 
and  then  backed  off  as  far  as  the  hearth  rug,  where 
she  planted  herself  with  her  hands  folded  beneath 
her  apron.  "  Anyway,  it 's  a  hard  time  ye  're  havin' 
wit  them  two  ladies,"  she  growled,  as  if  offering  a 
brief  explanation  for  her  decency ;  "  sure  I  c'd  be 
sorry  for  ye  meself." 

Flushing  painfully,  Corrie  sent  the  girl  back  to 
her  work.  "  Oh,  ye  're  a  lady,  anyhow,"  Maggie 
grumbled,  determined  to  have  her  say ;  "  it  don't 
take  more  'n  the  fill  av  me  eyes  to  see  ut,  an'  that 's 
what  I  wudd  n't  say  av  others  I  c'd  name." 

Corrie  ignored  this,  too,  but  the  girl  had  no 
sooner  withdrawn  than  there  rushed  over  Corrie  the 
feeling  that  she  had  been  both  unkind  and  unjust  in 
resenting  what  was  meant  only  as  a  kindness,  one  of 
the  very  few,  too,  she  had  known  in  that  house. 
While  she  was  still  considering  it,  Maggie  re 
appeared. 

158 


THE  ITEM  IN  THE  PERSONAL  COLUMN 

"  Wad  ye  have  a  look  at  the  morning's  paper?  " 
asked  the  girl;  and  Corrie,  with  a  new  note  of  gen 
tleness  in  her  voice,  thanked  her  with  a  smile. 

Corrie  rarely  read  the  newspapers;  but  rather 
than  offend  Maggie  by  her  indifference,  she  propped 
it  up  in  front  of  her  and  idly  scanned  the  columns 
while  she  munched  her  toast.  It  was  the  usual  type 
of  the  metropolitan  journal,  the  highly  seasoned  sum 
mary  of  a  day's  events,  a  kind  of  highly  flavored 
hors  cTceuvre  to  tickle  the  morning's  jaded  palates. 
One  saw  in  its  sprawling,  loosely-knitted  headlines 
the  usual  artful,  ingenious  effort  to  alarm  the  idle 
eye  into  interest;  the  usual  frantic,  appealing 
struggle  to  idealize  the  commonplace,  amusing  for 
all  its  vulgarity,  interesting  even  in  its  ignorance. 
To-day,  with  its  astonishing  type  and  its  highly  en 
tertaining  and  utterly  improbable  pictures,  it  was 
just  as  entertaining  and  improbable  as  it  had  been 
yesterday,  and,  by  the  same  token,  would  be  to-mor 
row,  and,  without  doubt,  the  day  afterward.  News 
of  all  kinds  was  set  forth;  news  instructive,  amus 
ing,  dire ;  a  great  deal  of  one,  as  much  of  the  other, 
and  not  less  of  the  remainder.  News  of  love,  pas 
sion,  and  greed ;  news  real,  and  news  immaterial ;  big 
news  and  little  news,  tragedy  and  comedy ;  news  of  the 
living  and  news  of  the  dead;  all  the  news  there  was 
was  there;  news  that  played  its  part  in  happiness 
and  grief;  in  comfort  and  despair.  Corrie  skimmed 
through  it  all,  vaguely  entertained,  and  then,  as  she 
folded  the  paper  together,  the  caption  in  the  upper 
left-hand  corner  of  the  front  page  appealed  to  her. 

159 


CORRIE  WHO? 

"  PERSONAZ.." 

Munching  the  last  of  her  toast,  she  read  carelessly, 
her  eye  drifting  down  the  column  of  advertisements. 
They,  too,  were  of  the  usual  kind,  the  usual  para 
graphs  —  vital,  banal,  appealing,  delusive  —  as  the 
case  might  be.  There  were  the  requests  for  some 
one  to  return  home  and  all  would  be  forgiven;  the 
characteristic  inquiries  for  missing  persons;  the  ob 
vious  and  everyday  baits  to  trap  the  unwary ;  the 
artful,  or,  on  the  other  hand,  equally  innocent  allure 
ments  stamped  with  that  ironclad  guarantee  of  good 
faith,  "  object,  matrimony."  Corrie  read  along, 
lightly  amazed  that  so  many  young  and  vivacious 
widows,  so  many  middle-aged  gentlemen  with  means, 
so  many  young  and  prosperous  business  men  with 
futures  should  find  it  necessary,  with  all  their  ad 
vantages,  to  appeal  so  publicly  for  a  mate.  But  there, 
too,  well  on  toward  the  column's  end,  a  name  caught 
her  eye,  as  she  skipped  along.  Alertly  she  returned 
to  it  and  read;  and  as  she  read,  the  girl's  heart 
leaped  suddenly  in  a  convulsive  bound,  beat  stridently 
and  sent  the  blood  of  excitement  coursing  through 
her  veins. 

TOLLABEE —  Anyone  knowing  the  present  whereabouts  of  the 
heir  or  heirs  of  Randolph  Tpllabee,  deceased,  will  be  suitably 
rewarded  by  communicating  with  Earnest,  Box  112. 

Corrie,  with  starting  eyes,  snatched  up  the  news 
paper.  "  Randolph  Tollabee,  deceased !  "  The  name 
roared  through  her  head  as  if  the  print  were  shouting 
it  vociferously.  But  what  Randolph  Tollabee,  de 
ceased?  Was  it  but  a  coincidence  of  names;  or  was 

160 


THE  ITEM  IN  THE  PERSONAL  COLUMN 

it,  indeed,  one  and  the  same  with  the  man  whose  life 
seemed  to  be  linked  so  closely,  though  so  indefin 
ably,  with  hers?  A  third  time  she  read,  and  then 
fluttering,  excited,  tensely  strung,  she  let  the  paper 
fall  from  her  hands  and  arose  unsteadily  to  her 
feet. 

For  there  had  leaped  into  her  mind  impulsively  the 
thought  that  if  this  were  the  same  Randolph  Tolla- 
bee,  others  must  be  told  of  it  —  Phil,  his  mother,  and 
his  uncle.  Still  impulsively  she  slipped  into  the  pan 
try  where  the  house  telephone  hung  on  the  wall  be 
side  the  dumbwaiter.  With  nervous,  clumsy  fingers, 
she  turned  the  pages  of  the  subscribers'  directory, 
hunting  for  the  "  G's,"  "G  for  Geikie,"  she  mur 
mured  hurriedly,  her  finger  running  down  the  list; 
then,  just  as  she  had  found  it,  Maggie  came  slouch 
ing  into  the  pantry. 

"Ain't  ye  a  goin'  to  eat  yer  coffee  and  toast?" 
she  demanded  aggrievedly,  "  and  me  at  all  the  bother 
to  git  it  for  ye  ?  " 

Distracted  by  the  question,  Corrie  lost  her  place 
in  the  directory.  "  G  for  Geikie.  Yes,  leave  it  on  the 
table  —  in  a  minute,"  she  answered,  all  absorbed. 
Then,  as  Maggie  withdrew,  she  found  the  number. 

"  Spring  9983  .  .  .  Geikie,  Philip,  architect,  57 
Hedge  Street." 

But  just  as  Corrie  reached  up  to  take  the  receiver 
off  the  hook,  a  step  sounded  on  the  stair.  It  was 
Miss  Maria's  step,  and  she  was  heading  for  the  din 
ing  room.  Corrie  slipped  back  into  her  place  at  the 
table,  and  picked  up  her  coffee  cup. 
11  161 


CORRIE  WHO? 

"  Good  morning,  Miss  Maria,"  she  said,  and  looked 
around. 

Miss  Maria  stared  at  her  blankly.  "  Oh,  good 
morning,"  she  answered,  as  if  with  an  effort,  and 
then  glanced  covertly  at  the  unfinished  breakfast. 

Corrie  saw  the  look.  "  Maggie  brought  it  to  me 
early,"  she  explained.  "  Won't  you  let  me  share  it 
with  you  ?  "  Miss  Maria  screwed  her  mouth  uncom 
fortably,  shook  her  head,  and,  as  if  about  to  say  some 
thing,  folded  her  hands  before  her.  But  changing 
her  mind,  apparently,  she  hunched  up  her  shoulders 
and  affected  to  straighten  out  the  silver  on  the  buffet. 
"  Humph !  "  Corrie  heard  her  sniff,  and  then  the  force 
of  custom  seemed  to  get  the  better  of  Miss  Maria, 
and  she  vented  her  feelings  in  something  that,  if 
not  uncomfortable,  was  at  least  not  reassuring. 
"  Well,  suit  yourself.  Have  your  breakfast  when  you 
want,  but  —  Hunh !  Don't  you  know  Mrs.  Pinchin  's 
coming  down  again  this  morning?  " 

Miss  Maria  drifted  away  into  the  front  room 
after  that,  and  Corrie  finished  her  breakfast  immersed 
in  thought.  Her  first  impulse  to  call  the  Geikies' 
attention  to  the  personal  no  longer  seemed  so  im 
perative.  Should  she  tell  them  or  not?  What  if 
they  thought  her  officious  and  presuming?  Already, 
in  her  innocence,  she  had  ventured  beyond  the 
bounds  of  propriety;  to  venture  further  would  be 
impossible. 

Then  came  another  thought.  What,  too,  if  Mrs. 
Pinchin  saw  that  advertisement?  There  was  no 
greater  reason  than  suspicion  to  suggest  either  she 

162 


THE  ITEM  IN  THE  PERSONAL  COLUMN 

or  Miss  Maria  would  be  interested  in  the  inquiry ;  if 
they  were,  what  then?  But  how  should  Mrs.  Pinchin 
be  made  to  see  that  graphic  paragraph?  One  way 
was  for  Corrie  to  point  it  out  in  person ;  another  was 
to  put  the  paper  where  Mrs.  Pinchin's  eagle  eye 
would  detect  it  unaided.  A  flush  mounted  to  Corrie's 
face  at  the  thought  of  such  duplicity.  Tossing  the 
paper  away  from  her,  she  hurried  out  of  the  room, 
and  Maggie,  coming  in  a  few  minutes  later  to  set 
the  table,  found  it  on  the  floor,  and  laid  it  at  Mrs. 
Pinchin's  place. 

It  was  an  hour  later  when  the  mistress  of  the  house 
presented  herself  at  the  breakfast  table.  Sleep,  even 
with  all  its  restoring  touches,  had  not  composed  Mrs. 
Pinchin's  features  to  a  peaceful  restfulness.  There 
was  a  scowl  in  her  dark,  heavy-lidded  eyes,  a  threat  as 
if  the  lady  had  not  found  the  bright  world  of  a  spring 
morning  entirely  to  her  liking.  She  lurched  labor 
iously  to  the  breakfast  table,  and  without  waiting  for 
Corrie's  aid,  dragged  out  her  chair  with  first  a  covert 
stare  at  the  girl  and  then  a  scowl  of  contempt  for 
the  uneasy  Miss  Maria. 

Again  the  pantomime  of  Mrs.  Pinchin's  morning 
meal  renewed  itself.  With  her  eyes  rolling  about  the 
room  as  if  —  literally  —  in  search  qf  what  she  might 
devour,  she  reached  out  her  hand  for  her  napkin  and 
encountered  the  folded  newspaper. 

Corrie,  seeing  it  there,  almost  gasped  aloud.  But 
Mrs.  Pinchin,  with  a  contemptuous  flick  of  her  hand, 
tossed  the  paper  aside,  and  flirting  open  her  napkin 
with  a  slap  like  the  crack  of  a  whip,  spread  the  dam- 

163 


CORRIE  WHO? 

ask  over  the  ample  breast  of  her  pink  silk  morning 
sack.  Then,  as  on  the  morning  before,  she  began  the 
introductory  comedy  of  snatching  for  the  oranges, 
selecting  first  one  and  then  another  until  satisfied  that 
the  best  in  the  platter  was  hers.  Maggie,  passing  on 
ward,  handed  the  fruit  to  Corrie,  who  silently  shook 
her  head.  When  the  oatmeal  was  passed,  she  refused 
that  also,  and  Mrs.  Pinchin,  chancing  to  look  up 
at  the  moment,  instantly  demanded  explanation. 
"  What 's  that  now?  "  she  rasped  irritably,  her  spoon 
suspended  on  its  way  to  her  waiting  mouth,  "  why 
ain't  you  eating?  Anything  wrong  with  the 
oatmeal?  " 

Corrie  answered :  "  No  —  why,  no.  I  've  break 
fasted  already ! " 

*'  Oh,  you  have,  have  you?  "  Concerned  as  Corrie 
was  with  other  matters,  she  had  forgotten  for  the 
moment  Mrs.  Pinchin's  rule  that  none  should  eat 
before  her.  "  You  mean  to  say,"  began  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin,  breaking  off  long  enough  to  gulp  the  waiting 
oatmeal,  "  you  mean  to  say  you  've  been  order 
ing  my " 

The  sentence,  however  it  meant  to  convey  her  dis 
pleasure,  was  for  some  reason  abruptly  cut  short  in 
the  middle.  Some  thought  appeared  to  strike  into 
her  mind,  and  her  features,  at  the  outset  angry  and 
contemptuous,  were  suddenly  smoothed  into  another 
and  much  less  bellicose  expression.  Indeed,  it  be 
came  almost  obvious  that  Mrs.  Pinchin,  in  that 
moment's  reflection,  had  instantly  regretted  her 
threatening  manner,  and  now  was  even  trying,  with 

1G4 


THE  ITEM  IN  THE  PERSONAL  COLUMN 

a  powerful  effort,  to  organize  an  amiable  smile.  "  Oh, 
yes  —  of  course  —  certainly.  You  must  have  your 
breakfast  when  you  want  it.  Yes,  indeed!  Pass  the 
cream,  Maggie." 

Perhaps,  in  that  moment  of  thought,  Mrs.  Pinchin 
recalled  her  promises  of  the  night  before;  the  deci 
sion  to  show  Corrie  the  consideration  that  so  long 
had  been  denied  her ;  and,  with  another  gallus,  loose- 
jawed  grin,  another  vital  effort  to  look  genial  and 
conciliatory,  Mrs.  Pinchin  returned  to  her  oatmeal. 

Beside  her  the  newspaper  still  lay  unheeded. 
Breathing  and  gulping,  smacking  her  lips  in  enjoy 
ment,  she  made  way  with  the  cereal,  and  then  set  to 
work  as  assiduously  on  a  generous  portion  of  sauted 
liver  and  bacon  attended  by  creamed  potatoes.  As 
usual,  she  plied  into  this  with  every  evidence  of  cor 
dial  satisfaction,  in  the  midst  of  which  she  looked  up 
abruptly,  with  a  grunt  alarming  in  its  loudness,  and 
grinned  in  Corrie's  face. 

"  Hunh !  I  ran  across  that  fellow  Alfuente  yester 
day.  What  do  you  suppose  he  said  to  me?  " 

Mr.  Alfuente,  as  it  may  be  remembered,  was  the 
lean,  oily  musician  of  Mrs.  Pinchin's  drawing-room 
who  had  tried  his  blandishments  on  Corrie.  The  girl 
heard  his  name  with  unconcern. 

"  Yes,"  drawled  Mrs.  Pinchin,  running  her  tongue 
around  between  her  lips  and  her  teeth,  "  what  do 
you  suppose  ?  "  She  darted  another  look  at  Corrie, 
and  broke  into  a  thick,  gurgling  chuckle.  "  He  'd 
got  it  into  his  head  you  were  my  daughter."  She 
blinked  humorously  as  she  made  this  revelation. 

165 


CORRIE  WHO? 

"  Yes,  and  he  's  dead  set  on  giving  you  music  lessons. 
He  said  he  would  n't  charge  anything,  either  —  j  ust 
for  art's  sake,  you  know.  I  guess  you  must  have 
made  an  impression  on  him." 

Corrie  frowned  openly,  but  made  no  answer,  and 
Mrs.  Pinchin  still  rattled  gaily  on,  buoyant  and  con 
fident,  as  if  fully  aware  of  her  own  condescension. 
"  Not  such  a  bad  idea,  do  you  think  ?  I  told  him  he 
might  call  around  some  time,  and  we  'd  talk  it  over." 

Pancakes  arrived  at  this  moment  and  distracted 
Mrs.  Pinchin's  attention ;  and  absorbed  in  her  new 
trencher  work,  she  became  too  busy  to  say  more. 
Corrie,  her  chin  in  her  hand,  pored  intently  on  her. 
She  was  not  so  young,  not  so  easily  to  be  deluded  by 
any  such  forced  effort  at  geniality ;  and  while  she 
watched,  her  brain  was  busy  wondering  how  long 
Mrs.  Pinchin  would  waste  her  time  with  the  artifice 
of  good  nature,  once  she  saw  the  advertisement. 
Though  conscious  that  Miss  Maria  was  intently 
watching  her  during  her  own  study  of  Mrs.  Pinchin, 
Corrie  gave  no  heed  to  the  sly  scrutiny.  Nor  was 
she  even  much  affected  by  a  memory  of  those  imperti 
nent  comments,  Mrs.  Pinchin's  jocose  and  offensive 
reflection  about  Mr.  Alfuente  and  why  he  wished  to 
give  Corrie  music  lessons.  Tensely  absorbed,  the  girl 
waited  the  moment  when  Mrs.  Pinchin's  eye  should 
fall  on  that  important  paragraph;  though  there 
were  moments  too,  when,  in  her  agitation,  she  could 
have  leaped  up,  snatched  away  the  paper,  and  thrown 
it  into  the  blazing  grate. 

Mrs.  Pinchin,  intent  on  striking  an  exact  balance 
166 


THE  ITEM  IN  THE  PERSONAL  COLUMN 

between  the  last  morsel  of  pancake  and  the  final  drop 
of  syrup,  had  buried  her  eyes  in  her  plate.  With  a 
dexterous  knife  she  pursued  the  elusive,  surviving 
trickle  to  its  last  stand;  with  an  implacable,  merci 
less  fork  she  impaled  the  hunted  tidbit.  Already  that 
last  votive  offering  to  her  appetite  had  been  raised 
toward  her  mouth.  A  moment  more  and  it  would 
have  passed,  sacrificed,  from  view,  when  Mrs.  Pinchin 
halted  suddenly  in  the  ceremonial,  and  as  suddenly 
broke  into  speech.  "  Order  the  carriage  for  ten," 
said  she,  bolted  the  mouthful,  and,  with  a  clatter  of 
knife  and  fork,  switched  back  in  her  chair  and  ad 
dressed  Corrie.  "  How  'd  you  like  a  carriage  ride? 
You  can  come  along,  too." 

To  ride  in  Mrs.  Pinchin's  carriage,  if  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin  were  in  it,  was  a  signal  mark  of  that  lady's  favor 
and  high  opinion.  It  was  so  much  one,  indeed,  that 
Corrie  had  rarely  enj  oyed  it  —  not  in  the  least,  per 
haps,  that  it  meant  a  real  enjoyment,  but  rather 
the  contrary.  For  on  these  occasions,  rare  as  they 
were,  when  Corrie  took  the  air  in  Mrs.  Pinchin's 
equipage,  she  was  never  allowed  to  share  the  width 
and  comfort  of  the  cushiony  back  seat  on  which  Mrs. 
Pinchin  lolled  in  ease  and  dignity.  Instead,  she  was 
perched  uncomfortably  on  a  small,  awkward,  stool-like 
arrangement  in  front,  which,  when  it  was  not  in  use, 
was  folded  up  under  the  forebody  of  the  brougham. 
To  add  to  this  discomfort,  the  girl,  on  these  occa 
sions,  was  made  still  further  miserable  by  Mrs. 
Pinchin's  continual  and  petulant  warning  "  keep  your 
feet  away  "  —  "  move  over  there  "  —  "  stop  nudging 

167 


CORRIE  WHO? 

into  me."  For  in  her  carriage,  as  elsewhere,  Mrs. 
Pinchin  was  jealous  of  her  comfort,  and,  after  all, 
why  should  n't  she  have  been  ?  Was  she,  for  even  a 
moment,  to  be  made  irritable  and  uncomfortable  by 
one  who  was  hired  to  insure  her  comfort?  Certainly 
not. 

But  at  Mrs.  Pinchin's  invitation  to  Corrie,  Miss 
Maria  raised  her  eyes  in  alarm.  "  But  you  promised 
me  —  you  promised "  began  Miss  Maria,  in 
tensely  concerned  and  excited.  Mrs.  Pinchin  cut  her 
short. 

"  Nonsense !  I  promised  nothing  of  the  kind." 
She  knitted  her  shaggy  brows  together  at  Miss 
Maria,  as  if  trying  to  bully  her  into  silence ;  but  for 
the  moment  Miss  Maria  was  not  to  be  bullied. 

"  If  you  don't,  I  '11  go  alone !  "  she  cried,  with 
a  new  and  altogether  astonishing  determination. 
"  You  've  got  to  take  me,  or  I  will." 

Mrs.  Pinchin  made  no  answer.  Rolling  her  nap 
kin  into  a  ball,  she  tossed  it  on  the  table  and  pushed 
back  her  chair,  and  Miss  Maria,  with  her  eyes  still 
flashing  determinedly,  followed  suit.  But  while  Mrs. 
Pinchin  was  reaching  around  for  her  stick,  her  glance 
encountered  the  folded  newspaper.  "  I  'm  going !  — 
do  you  hear?"  spoke  Miss  Maria,  convincingly; 
and  Mrs.  Pinchin  picked  up  the  newspaper,  and  stick 
ing  it  under  her  arm,  put  it  down  again  and  stared 
at  her  darkly. 

"  You  '11  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  she  said  in  a  slow, 
minatory  voice.  Rolling  her  head  from  side  to  side, 
as  if  to  give  emphasis  to  her  words,  she  fastened  her 

168 


THE  ITEM  IN  THE  PERSONAL  COLUMN 

eyes  threateningly  on  the  other.  Miss  Maria  clasped 
her  hands  together,  and,  unmindful  of  Corrie,  cried 
out  piteously. 

"  Oh,  Judie,  Judie  L "  she  almost  wailed.  "  Judie, 
if  you  don't  take  me,  I  '11  go  out  of  my  head." 

"  Keep  your  tongue  still !  Do  you  hear  me  ?  I  've 
had  enough  of  that  now." 

Miss  Maria,  with  another  appealing  look,  bit  her 
lip  and  seemed  ready  to  burst  into  tears.  "  You  '11 
break  my  heart,"  she  began,  faltering,  when 
Mrs.  Pinchin  stilled  her  with  a  sharp  and  angry 
exclamation. 

"  You  look  at  here  now !    If  you " 

A  thick  grunt  of  disdain  broke  off  the  unfinished 
sentence,  and  contemptuously  again  Mrs.  Pinchin 
scowled  at  her  relation.  Miss  Maria  said  no  more, 
and,  as  if  assured  that  the  scene  had  ended,  Mrs. 
Pinchin  flicked  the  crumbs  from  her  skirt,  reached 
around  for  her  cane,  and  then  let  her  eyes  again 
drift  casually  toward  the  newspaper. 

"  Come,  if  you  're  ready,"  she  was  saying,  when 
the  words  were  arrested.  "  Come,  if  you  're  ready, 
we  '11 " 

That  was  all.  She  set  down  the  cane  against  the 
side  of  her  chair,  pored  intently  at  the  newspaper  a 
moment,  and  then  reached  out  her  hand  for  the  glass 
of  water  before  her.  Holding  it  to  her  mouth,  her 
eyes  still  fastened  on  the  print,  she  read  and  drank 
together.  Quietly  then  the  glass  was  removed  from 
her  lips ;  she  set  it  on  the  table  and  as  quietly  leaned 
forward.  A  tense  moment  followed.  Corrie,  ready 

169 


CORRIE  WHO? 

to  cry  aloud,  could  have  snatched  the  paper  from  her 
hand,  but  Corrie,  instead,  sat  breathless.  Watching 
intently,  she  saw  the  heavy-lidded  eyes  flicker  mo 
mentarily.  Mrs.  Pinchin's  throat  convulsed  itself  an 
instant  as  if  in  the  reflex  of  swallowing  something; 
then  over  Mrs.  Pinchin's  sallow,  profoundly  heavy 
face  there  crept  a  ghastly,  leprous  whiteness.  A 
deep  breath,  like  a  sigh,  escaped  her.  Working  her 
lips  as  if  her  tongue  suddenly  had  become  feverishly 
dry,  she  reached  for  the  glass  of  water  once  more, 
and  raised  it  hazardously  to  her  mouth.  All  the 
while  her  eyes  were  kept  riveted  on  the  print;  she 
read,  replaced  the  glass  on  the  table,  widened  her 
nostril  in  another  stifled  gasp,  and  then  slowly,  ma 
jestically,  terribly,  she  raised  her  head  and  stared 
about  her  like  an  offended,  tragic  Medea. 

What  storm  spent  its  turmoil  within  the  recesses  of 
Mrs.  Pinchin's  brain,  only  she  could  know ;  yet  fierce 
as  it  must  have  been,  and  frightful,  as  the  convulsion 
of  her  face  clearly  showed,  the  struggle  to  control 
was  greater,  more  masterful,  even  almost  noble.  For 
all  the  hurricane  forces  of  her  emotion  swept  by 
soundlessly,  betrayed  by  no  other  sign  than  the  mo 
mentary  pallor,  the  instant's  disorder  of  her  fea 
tures,  the  brief  working  of  her  jaws.  Quietly  she 
turned  to  Corrie  and  spoke,  and  only  a  slight 
thickness  of  her  voice  showed  the  emotion  that  even 
then  must  have  tugged  at  her  heart  strings. 

"  The  smelling-salts  —  on  my  bureau  —  I  want 
them." 

Dominant,  imperious,  masterful,  all  the  old  self- 
170 


THE  ITEM  IN  THE  PERSONAL  COLUMN 

control    regained    again.      "  Hurry !  "    she    ordered 
roughly. 

Corrie,  on  trembling  feet,  made  her  way  to  the 
door.  Out  of  the  corner  of  her  eye  she  saw  Mrs. 
Pinchin  lean  forward  across  the  table  and  silently 
push  the  paper  into  Miss  Maria's  hand.  Miss  Maria 
took  it,  amazed  and  disconcerted.  "  Why,  what  is 
it?  Why " 

"  Look  at  it  —  there!  "  rumbled  Mrs.  Pinchin, 
hollowly. 

Then,  when  Corrie  was  half-way  up  the  stair,  the 
climax  came.  "  God ! "  said  a  profound,  quivering 
voice,  thickly  wheezing,  choked  with  crowded  emo 
tion,  "  God "  After  that  there  was  silence. 

The  smelling-salts  were  not  on  the  bureau,  as  Mrs. 
Pinchin  had  said,  and  it  was  only  after  a  long 
search  that  Corrie  found  the  vial  under  the  bed  pil 
lows.  Yet  once  she  had  found  what  she  hunted  for, 
Corrie's  hurried  activities  came  to  a  sudden  end.  As 
she  turned  to  go  back  to  the  dining  room  the  pier 
glass  beside  the  window  flashed  at  her  the  vision  of 
her  pale  and  frightened  self;  and  all  the  more  terri 
fied  at  the  sight  of  it,  she  shrank  back  and  stared  at 
herself  questioningly.  What  now?  For  now  that  the 
dramatic,  vitally  tragic  situation  had  been  brought 
about  —  now  that  she  had  witnessed  the  tumult  it  had 
made  —  she  dared  hardly  return  to  the  scene.  But 
while  she  halted,  debating  wildly,  a  cry,  fierce  and 
authoritative,  rang  through  the  house.  "  Quick  — 
come  here  —  help  me !  "  A  moment  later  another 

cry  followed.     "  Oh "     Then,  as  if  in  emphasis, 

171 


CORRIE  WHO? 

there  was  a  clink  of  breaking  glassware,  a  louder  and 
more  prolonged  crash,  and  a  muffled  thud  as  of  a 
heavy  weight  fallen  to  the  floor. 

Mrs.  Pinchin  —  it  was  she!  Rushing  from  the 
room,  Corrie  sped  down  the  stairs,  a  hand  on  the 
balusters  to  support  her;  and  wild  with  consterna 
tion  and  regret,  almost  palsied  by  her  terror,  she 
reached  the  floor  below.  Mrs.  Pinchin !  Had  the 
promised  stroke  fallen  at  last  ?  —  and  had  Corrie  been 
virtually  the  cause  of  it? 

But  there  in  the  doorway  of  the  dining  room  stood 
Mrs.  Pinchin  herself  —  Mrs.  Pinchin  still  among  the 
living.  She  had  forsaken  her  stick  in  this  moment  of 
fierce  and  impelling  distraction,  and  with  her  face 
flaming  and  her  body  rigidly  erect,  she  towered  be 
side  the  doorway,  one  hand  outstretched  to  snatch 
the  smelling-salts  from  Corrie.  "  Quick !  raise  her 
up ! "  she  commanded  hoarsely,  and  with  another 
forceful  gesture,  pointed  to  the  floor  beside  the 
table. 

There  lay  a  loose  and  formless  figure,  a  shape 
huddled  within  itself  inertly  and  half  concealed 
beneath  the  drapery  of  the  table  cover.  The  cloth, 
dragged  with  the  figure  in  its  fall,  had  sluiced  down 
upon  the  floor  a  torrent  of  glass,  chinaware,  and  sil 
ver  ;  a  chair  had  toppled  over,  too,  and  on  the  edge 
of  all  this  confusion,  her  mouth  open  in  silly  dismay, 
her  hands  raised  in  terror,  stood  Maggie  the  waitress, 
ready  at  the  word  to  break  into  a  chorus  of  screams. 
For  the  huddled  figure  that  lay  on  the  floor  was 
Miss  Maria's.  The  shock,  whatever  it  had  been,  had 

172 


THE  ITEM  IN  THE  PERSONAL  COLUMN 

passed  by  the  stalwart,  capable  Mrs.  Pinchin,  and 
had  wreaked  all  its  potent  forces  on  the  weaker  vessel 
of  the  two.  Maggie,  unable  to  restrain  her  excite 
ment,  essayed  an  experimental  yell.  "  Go  —  clear 
out ! "  interposed  Mrs.  Pinchin  in  a  voice  of  rage. 
"  Get  away  from  here !  "  Maggie,  all  the  more  as 
tounded,  fled  to  the  pantry,  and  Corrie  fell  on  her 
knees  beside  Miss  Maria. 

Even  in  that  moment  of  her  own  high  emotion,  the 
girl  felt  a  small,  aching  pity  for  the  forlorn  woman 
who  lay  there  senseless.  Poor  Miss  Maria!  There 
had  been  moments  when  she  had  shown  almost  kind 
ness  to  Corrie,  and  the  girl  was  not  one  readily  to 
forget  a  thing  like  that.  Filled  with  instant  compas 
sion,  dismayed,  all  her  presence  of  mind  departing, 
she  strove  awkwardly  to  loosen  the  throat  of  Miss 
Maria's  dress ;  then  she  crouched  back  and  vainly 
wrung  her  hands.  "  Oh  —  oh !  "  she  cried,  horri 
fied,  and  once  more  tried  to  tear  apart  the  prostrate 
woman's  stiff  linen  collar.  "  Oh,  what  shall  I  do  ?  " 

It  was  at  this  point  that  all  the  determination  of 
Mrs.  Pinchin's  character  asserted  itself,  —  the  able, 
resolute  firmness  that  could  display  its  force  even  in  a 
moment  as  overwhelming  as  this.  "  Raise  her  head !  " 
she  directed  energetically ;  "  now  open  her  collar  — 
tear  it  loose !  "  she  commanded,  and  Corrie,  exerting 
all  her  strength,  tore  it  open.  With  clumsy,  unable 
fingers  she  managed  somehow,  under  Mrs.  Pinchin's 
fierce  dictation,  to  unbutton  the  breast  of  Miss  Ma 
ria's  waist,  and  there,  as  the  dress  was  thrown  apart, 
the  girl's  fingers  encountered  a  gold  medallion  strung 

173 


CORRIE  WHO? 

on  a  ribbon  from  Miss  Maria's  lean  and  unlovely 
throat. 

Mrs.  Pinchin's  alert  eye  caught  the  glint  of  gold; 
with  unexpected  quickness  she  leaned  down,  and,  shov 
ing  Corrie's  hands  away,  snatched  at  the  ribbon. 
"  What 's  this  ?  "  she  questioned  under  her  breath, 
and  with  a  vigorous  tug,  broke  the  fastening.  But 
in  that  moment  the  girl,  watching  shrewdly,  had 
caught  a  full  glimpse  of  the  medallion's  obverse  side. 
It  held  within  its  setting  a  miniature  painted  on 
ivory,  the  face  of  a  young  man,  handsome,  self- 
assured,  and  with  an  expression  in  the  quiet  eyes  al 
most  of  contemptuous  disdain.  It  was  a  face  known 
and  familiar,  and  though  much  younger  in  this  like 
ness  than  the  original  of  to-day,  there  was  no  mis 
taking  the  identity. 

In  other  words,  Miss  Maria  wore  at  her  throat  the 
portrait  of  Mrs.  Pinchin's  familiar  and  curious  guest, 
the  nonchalant  Mr.  Stanton. 

"  Well, '  Mrs.  Pinchin,  with  her  eyes  flick 
ering  in  an  instant's  astonishment,  stared  at  the  min 
iature,  and  then  thrust  it  into  the  capacious  pocket 
of  her  skirt.  A  lurking  grin  of  contempt  contorted 
her  lips  for  the  instant,  and  then  resuming  her  di 
rections  hurriedly,  she  held  out  the  vial  of  smelling- 
salts. 

"Here,  put  this  to  her  nose!"  she  ordered 
roughly.  "  Give  her  a  good  sniff  —  no,  not  that 
way!  Hold  it  there  till  she  feels  it!  There! 
that 's  it !  " 

Under  the  heroic  treatment  Miss  Maria's  hands 
174 


THE  ITEM  IN  THE  PERSONAL  COLUMN 

presently  began  to  flutter  wildly.  She  sighed,  her 
huddled  limbs  outstretched  themselves,  she  breathed 
a  deep  gasp,  and  then  her  eyelids  quivered  like 
stricken  wings.  But  the  moment  the  pale  eyes  opened 
to  awakened  sense  Miss  Maria  stared  at  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin,  and  with  clawlike  hands  began  clutching  at  Mrs. 
Pinchin's  knees.  "  Oh,  Judie  —  oh,  my  God,  Judie !  " 
she  wailed,  oblivious  of  the  girl  who  supported  her; 
"  oh,  what  are  we  going  to  do !  What  are  we  going 
to  do!" 

"  Hush !  "  cried  Mrs.  Pinchin,  stridently,  beating 
down  the  fingers  that  clawed  at  her.  She  laid  a  swift 
hand  on  Miss  Maria's  mouth,  quelling  the  words  that 
still  flocked  to  her  lips.  "  Here  —  get  on  your  feet !  " 
ordered  Mrs.  Pinchin,  in  a  determined  voice.  She 
leaned  down,  and  aided  by  Corrie,  dragged  the  limp 
and  sobbing  woman  to  an  upright  position.  "  Come 
now,  control  yourself,"  she  rasped  irritably.  "  How 
long  are  you  going  to  keep  on  acting  like  a  fool?  " 

Miss  Maria  obeyed  to  the  extent  of  standing  on 
her  feet,  and  then  leaning  on  Corrie,  was  guided  to 
the  nearest  chair.  But  she  had  no  sooner  fallen  into 
this  seat  when  the  stress  of  all  she  had  undergone 
again  became  too  great  for  self-control.  Burying 
her  face  in  her  hands,  she  rocked  to  and  fro.  "  Oh, 
Judie,  Judie  —  oh  what " 

"  Silence !  "  roared  Mrs.  Pinchin,  furiously. 

In  her  room,  a  half  hour  later,  Corrie  closed  the 
door  behind  her,  and  almost  as  if  in  terror,  she  laid  a 
hand  over  her  own  fluttering  heart.  Once  more  she 
asked  herself  the  oft-repeated  question:  What  was 

175 


CORRIE  WHO? 

to  be  done?  This  time  the  thought  brought  its 
own  swift  decision.  To  live  there  longer,  to  remain 
in  that  house  hedged  around  by  the  unknown,  to  stay 
amid  all  that  crowding  mystery  seemed  intolerable. 
It  could  last  no  longer.  The  time  had  come  now 
when  Mrs.  Pinchin  should  no  longer  dominate  her 
life  —  bend  her  submissively  to  every  caprice  of  her 
never-ending  bullying  and  greediness.  The  girl  had 
no  plans  for  the  future,  and  as  for  money  itself  — 
Yes,  Mrs.  Pinchin  had  paid  her  a  salary,  a  regular 
stipend,  a  monthly  indebtedness  discharged  largely 
in  figures  of  speech.  "  Money?  What  do  you  need 
of  money,  a  girl  like  you  ?  Have  n't  I  told  you  it 's 
been  put  by  in  the  bank?  "  Corrie  had  never  been 
able  to  learn  when  this  bank  deposit  would  become 
hers  in  fact,  rather  than  in  fiction ;  nor  had  she  ever 
discovered  from  Mrs.  Pinchin's  vague  references  the 
exact  whereabouts  of  the  bank.  But  now,  fully  de 
termined,  she  would  insist  on  Mrs.  Pinchin  giving  her 
the  money  she  had  earned,  and  with  that  in  hand,  and 
with  the  sublime  confidence  of  youth,  good  health,  and 
buoyant  mind,  she  felt  sure  that  even  in  that  striving, 
thoughtless,  big,  and  selfish  city,  whose  life  heaved 
so  close  at  hand  like  the  billows  of  a  sea,  she  could 
keep  her  head  afloat.  She  would  do  it  willy  nilly, 
money  or  no. 

So  now!  Turning  abruptly,  she  locked  the  door 
and  began  spreading  out  her  possessions  on  the  bed. 
In  the  moment's  sudden  determination  she  had  for 
gotten  all  else  —  even  her  promise  of  the  night  be 
fore,  the  self-made  promise  that  she  would  stay  with 

176 


THE  ITEM  IN  THE  PERSONAL  COLUMN 

Mrs.  Pinchin  until  she  had  learned  the  secret  of  her 
birth.  Then,  in  the  midst  of  her  hurried  labors, 
a  knock  sounded  on  the  door. 

"  Please,  miss,"  said  Maggie  the  waitress,  "  ye  're 
wanted  at  the  phoone.  He  '11  be  in  a  hurry,  too,  by 
the  voice  of  him." 


12  177 


CHAPTER   X 

The  appointment.  —  Corrie  tries  to  escape.  —  Mrs.  Pinchin's 
wrath  and  her  ugly  warning.  —  Mr.  Stanton  reappears.  — 
Mrs.  Pinchin's  alarm  concerning  her  papers.  —  The  escape. 
—  Central  Park  in  the  early  morning.  —  The  Tollabees, 
Uncle  Stanwood,  Mrs.  Pinchin  et  al.  —  The  rustic  bridge 
and  what  happened  thereon.  —  Young  love  almost  has  its 
way. 


closed  her  door  and   followed   Maggie 
down  the  stairs. 

"  Who  is  it  at  the  telephone?  "  she  asked  anxiously, 
at  the  same  time  flushing  consciously  with  the 
knowledge  that  she  need  hardly  ask  that  question. 

"  Sure,  and  how  would  I  know?  "  answered  Maggie, 
unaffectedly.  "  I  did  n't  think  to  ask  your  friend 
his  name." 

Hurrying  into  the  pantry,  Corrie  picked  up  the 
receiver.  "  Yes,  who  is  it  ?  "  she  asked  in  a  re 
strained  voice;  then  over  the  wire  came  the  reply. 

"  Good  morning.  I  knew  you  could  n't  guess.  It 
is  I  —  Phil  Geikie." 

Though  Corrie's  back  was  turned,  she  was  aware 
subconsciously  that  Maggie  had  planted  herself  a 
few  feet  away,  and  was  listening  with  every  evidence 
of  an  amiable  and  knowing  satisfaction.  Yet  it  was 
not  altogether  due  to  this  that  the  flush  crept  into 
Corrie's  face  anew,  or  that  her  reply  was  broken  and 
disj  ointed. 

178 


YOUNG  LOVE 
Oh,  yes  —  why,  of  course  it 's  —  I  mean 


Corrie,  with  an  effort,  composed  herself,  though  she 
still  fluttered  inwardly.  "  Good  morning.  Will  you 
wait  just  a  moment? "  The  tell-tale  flush  still 
mantled  her  face  and  neck  rosily  as  she  turned  around 
to  the  maid.  "  Maggie,  I  want  you  to  go  down 
stairs  at  once,"  she  directed  in  a  firm  voice.  "  What 
I  have  to  say  over  the  telephone  is  very  private. 
Go !  "  she  bade  her. 

"  Owh!  —  and  was  it  that  he  's  a  telling  ye?  "  ex 
claimed  Maggie,  with  a  wondering  air  of  the  utmost 
meaning.  "  And  over  the  phone !  "  A  wide  grin 
stretched  itself  over  Maggie's  face  as  she  withdrew 
regretfully. 

"  Mercy !  "  cried  the  voice  over  the  wire,  "  I  was 
afraid,  for  a  moment,  from  your  tone  of  voice,  that 
you  meant  me !  "  Then  after  this  sally  he  became 
suddenly  grave.  "  Tell  me,"  he  asked  quickly,  "  have 
you  seen  this  morning's  newspapers  ?  There 's  an 
advertisement  that  will  interest  you." 

Corrie  cut  in  abruptly.  "  You  mean  about  those 
people  ?  "  She  dared  not  mention  the  name  aloud  for 
fear  that  someone  might  overhear.  But  Phil  under 
stood.  "  Yes  —  yes,  I  've  seen  it !  "  she  answered 
hurriedly,  "  do  you  know  what  it  means  ?  They  've 
seen  it,  too." 

"  Not  Mrs.  Pinchin !  "  buzzed  the  telephone,  hum 
ming  with  the  intensity  of  the  voice  at  the  other  end 
of  the  wire.  "  Do  you  mean  her?  What  happened?  " 

But  to  tell  him  all  that  with  the  chance  of  Mrs. 
Pinchin  herself  overhearing  how  her  curious  conduct 

179 


CORRIE  WHO? 

was  regarded  by  another  seemed  too  great  a  risk  to 
take.  "  I  can't  speak  of  it  now  —  you  must  wait  — 
when  I  see  you  again,"  she  responded  nervously. 
"  It  was  a  great  deal  that  happened  —  almost 
dreadful.  It  was  dreadful !  " 

"  Dreadful ! "  she  heard  him  repeat  in  a  concerned 
voice.  "  Do  you  mean  for  yourself?  You  must  tell 
me !  "  he  insisted. 

On  the  floor  above,  a  slow  and  limping  footfall 
plodded  about,  the  glassware  on  the  pantry  shelves 
tinkling  in  time  to  the  precision  of  that  ponderous 
tread.  Corrie  thought  the  heavy  feet  headed  for  the 
stairway,  as  if  Mrs.  Pinchin  by  instinct,  divination, 
a  super  sense,  had  awakened  to  what  was  going  on  on 
the  floor  below  her.  "  Listen  —  I  cannot  tell  you 
now !  "  cried  the  girl,  rapidly,  "  if  I  could  —  When 
I  see  you  again.  Not  now,  but  the  next  time  we 
meet." 

"  That 's  the  very  thing  I  want !  "  came  the  instant 
rej  oinder.  "  I  want  to  see  you.  I  must  —  and 
to-day ! " 

Corrie  was  about  to  utter  a  nervous  objection 
when  he  interrupted  her,  clearly  determined.  "  No ! 
no,  no ! "  she  began ;  but  apparently  he  was  not  to 
be  deterred. 

"  Yes,  you  must.  I  'm  going  uptown  at  once  to 
see  you.  Do  you  understand  ?  I  'm  going  straight 
to  the  Park  entrance  at  Seventy-second  Street,  and 
I  '11  be  there  —  wait,  let  me  look  at  my  watch  —  I  '11 
be  there  waiting  for  you  in  twenty-five  minutes.  Can 
you  hear  me?  —  at  five  minutes  after  ten." 

180 


YOUNG  LOVE 

A  faintly  murmured  yes  went  over  the  wire,  half 
heard  at  the  other  end,  yet  still  clearly  understood. 

"You'll  surely  be  there,  won't  you?  Be 
cause  " 

But  blushing  hotly,  waiting  to  hear  no  more,  Corrie 
hurriedly  hung  the  receiver  on  the  hook  and  fled. 
And  not  any  too  soon,  it  appeared;  for  as  Corrie 
reached  the  dining-room  door  she  heard  the  limping 
footfall  above  renew  itself,  and  now,  in  verity,  it 
sounded  on  the  stairs.  Slowly,  majestically,  as  de 
termined  as  ever,  Mrs.  Pinchin  descended,  her  slow 
eyes  burning  with  a  suppressed  yet  vital  fire,  her 
jaw  squared,  and  decision  written  in  every  line  of 
her  grim  and  iron  features.  She  and  the  girl  met 
in  the  hallway,  Mrs.  Pinchin  repressed  and  master 
ful,  Corrie  fearful  and  guiltily  embarrassed. 

"  You  ordered  my  carriage  for  ten  ?  "  inquired  Mrs. 
Pinchin  with  an  inflection  that  suggested  no  possible 
doubt. 

Corrie  in  confusion  remembered  she  had  forgotten. 
"  Oh  —  why,  no !  "  she  stammered. 

Mrs.  Pinchin's  eyes  slowly  fastened  on  hers.  "  You 
forgot?  Didn't  I  instruct  you  to  do  it?"  she  de 
manded  harshly.  "  Look  here  now ;  what 's  gotten 
into  you  lately  ?  " 

Then  Corrie's  dignity  came  to  her  aid.  "  Nothing 
has  gotten  into  me,  Mrs.  Pinchin,"  she  answered 
quietly.  "  I  forgot  —  that  is  all." 

Then  at  the  girl's  steadfast  look,  the  dull,  heavy- 
lidded  eyes  shifted,  and  Mrs.  Pinchin  drew  in  her 
breath,  a  sigh  almost  of  weariness.  "  Well,  call  up 

181 


CORRIE  WHO? 

the  stable  now,"  she  said  in  an  altered  tone,  as  if 
tired  of  contention,  and  willing  to  sue  for  peace  at 
any  cost.  "  Remember,  please,  you  're  to  go  with  me. 
Don't  forget  that." 

An  objection  leaped  to  Corrie's  lips;  she  remem 
bered  whom  she  had  promised  to  meet  at  the  Park 
entrance.  "  But  I  — "  she  had  begun,  when  Mrs. 
Pinchin  wheeled  on  her  ponderously. 

"  But  you  —  well  —  what?  " 

Corrie,  without  answering,  walked  through  the 
dining  room,  and  on  into  the  pantry.  There  seemed 
little  to  be  gained  in  rekindling  the  latent  flame  in 
the  breast  of  that  grim  and  moody  personage,  to  re 
kindle  the  tinder  of  her  wrath.  Yet  the  moment  was 
only  delayed ;  for  Corrie,  with  a  new  and  greater  rea 
son  than  all  others  to  encourage  her,  had  decided  to 
dispute  Mrs.  Pinchin's  power.  No,  she  would  not 
drive  with  her  to-day  —  perhaps  she  would  never 
drive  with  her  again.  Down  the  hall  she  heard  the 
door  close  noisily  as  Mrs.  Pinchin  mured  herself  in 
her  den,  and  then  the  house  relapsed  into  its  accus 
tomed  stillness.  But,  as  Corrie  climbed  the  stairs  to 
her  room,  another  sound  reached  her  ears  in  that 
quietness,  a  sound  that  warned  her  the  climax  of  the 
morning's  tragic  circumstance  still  worked  its  effect. 
Miss  Maria's  door  was  closed,  yet  from  within  came 
a  thin  and  small,  keen,  gagging  whisper,  a  sobbing 
insistently  fearful  as  of  a  child  crying  its  terror  of 
the  dark. 

It  was  Miss  Maria  who  wept,  choking,  as  if  she 
strove  to  silence  herself. 

182 


YOUNG  LOVE 

Once  she  regained  her  room,  a  glance  at  the  clock 
warned  Corrie  she  would  have  no  time  for  her  inter 
rupted  packing.  In  less  than  a  half  hour  she  must 
be  at  the  Park  entrance,  and  at  the  thought  of  it, 
with  a  girlish  consciousness,  she  glanced  at  herself 
swiftly  in  the  mirror.  The  glance,  brief  as  it  was, 
awakened  other  glances  directed  at  herself,  —  a  crit 
ical  survey  of  her  appearance.  They  were  almost 
unhappy,  dissatisfied  glances,  too,  and  with  a  sigh, 
she  looked  toward  the  wardrobe,  realizing  it  held 
nothing  better  to  wear  than  the  dress  she  was  then 
arrayed  in.  But  Corrie  was  not  one  long  to  nurse 
discontent  for  something  that  could  not  be  bettered, 
and  a  moment  later,  with  her  accustomed  animation, 
she  was  making  ready  for  the  street. 

Downstairs  in  the  hall,  the  tall,  garish  wall  clock 
sounded  its  peal  of  chimes  —  a  quarter  of  ten  —  time 
to  be  flitting  now.  Straightening  her  hat  before  the 
glass,  she  picked  up  her  j  acket,  and  once  more  as  on 
the  day  before,  tiptoed  to  the  stairs.  Below,  the 
house  maintained  its  quiet ;  there  was  no  longer  even 
that  whisper  of  sobbing  from  the  room  below;  and 
the  only  sound  the  girl  could  detect  was  from  outside 
—  the  distant,  deadened  murmur  of  the  city's  street 
noises,  echoing  like  the  voice  of  a  never  stilled  sea. 
But  as  Corrie  leaned  over  the  balustrade,  waiting  to 
make  sure,  her  brows  drew  together  in  a  sudden  little 
frown.  Why  should  she  go  like  this,  stealthy  and 
creeping  —  and  what  would  he  think  of  her  —  as  if 
she  were  a  thief  in  the  night?  In  that  moment's  re 
flection  it  seemed  to  her  there  had  been  too  many  of 

183 


CORRIE  WHO? 

these  undignified  exits  —  too  much  of  this  crafti 
ness.  Shame  touched  her  face  with  its  flaming  finger, 
and  nerved  by  that  stress  of  self-scorn,  she  tucked 
her  jacket  firmly  under  her  arm,  and  thereupon 
marched  down  the  broad  stairway  of  Mrs.  Pinchin's 
with  all  the  majesty  and  determination  Mrs.  Pinchin 
herself  might  have  assumed.  Past  Miss  Maria's 
door  she  tramped,  down  the  last  flight  to  the  drawing- 
room  floor  and  with  her  head  held  proudly  erect, 
Corrie  was  advancing  toward  the  street  door  when 
there  arose  directly  in  her  path,  the  massive,  porten 
tous  bulk  of  the  very  one  whom  the  girl  had  meant 
to  defy. 

Mrs.  Pinchin  had  come  noiselessly  out  of  her  secret 
closet.  Under  one  arm  was  tucked  a  portly  bundle 
of  documents  tied  around  with  tape,  and  at  the  sight 
of  Corrie,  she  made  an  involuntary  movement,  as  if 
to  retreat  within  the  room ;  then  changing  her  mind, 
she  advanced  along  the  hallway,  her  eyes  fixed  dis 
trustfully  on  her  companion.  "  Where  are  you  go 
ing?  The  carriage  is  n't  ready  yet,"  she  said,  her 
thick  brows  meeting  in  her  frown. 

"  No,  I  know,"  answered  Corrie.  "  I  'm  going  out 
for  a  moment,  though." 

Through  many  years  of  persistent  oppression, 
Mrs.  Pinchin  had  unconsciously  done  her  best  to  in 
struct  Corrie  in  all  the  arts  of  evasion,  concealment, 
deceit.  But  one  would  have  thought  now  that  Corrie 
had  profited  little  by  the  lessons;  for  at  the  very 
moment  when  deceit  would  have  proved  of  the  best  ad 
vantage  to  the  pupil,  Corrie  faced  her  able  instruc- 

184 


YOUNG  LOVE 

tor  with  the  truth.  "  I  'm  going  out,"  she  said,  and 
perhaps  there  was  a  reason  why  Mrs.  Pinchin  should 
show  her  immediate  astonishment. 

"  You  're  going  out?  "  she  repeated.  "  What  are 
you  going  out  for?  And  who  told  you,  now,  you 
could  go  ?  " 

"  No  one  told  me.  I  am  going  out  on  an  errand 
for  myself." 

"  An  errand  for  yourself?  "  There  was  a  sing 
song  cadence  of  mockery  in  Mrs.  Pinchin's  voice  that 
denoted  the  wrath  rising  apace  with  her  contempt. 
"  What  kind  of  an  errand  for  yourself?  " 

Corrie  moved  as  if  to  pass  Mrs.  Pinchin  without 
further  parleying.  But  there  was  an  explanation 
still  to  be  made,  and  Mrs.  Pinchin  showed  no  willing 
ness  to  forego  it.  "  Stop !  "  she  said  in  a  low  warn 
ing  voice,  and  with  that  planted  her  cane  against 
the  wall  to  bar  Corrie's  way.  "  Stop !  Now  let 's 
have  an  explanation  of  these  doings." 

"  I  tell  you  I  have  an  errand,  Mrs.  Pinchin,"  said 
Corrie,  her  eyes  unwavering,  though  her  face  had 
blanched.  "  I  '11  return  in  a  few  minutes." 

"  You  '11  return  in  a  few  minutes,"  mimicked  Mrs. 
Pinchin,  baring  her  teeth.  "  You  '11  do  nothing  of 
the  kind.  You  '11  go  to  your  room  and  stay  until  I 
see  fit  to  send  for  you."  In  fierce  emphasis  of  the 
words  she  wagged  her  head  from  side  to  side,  and  fol 
lowed  this  with  a  commanding  gesture  of  her  stick. 
"  Come  —  do  as  I  tell  you.  What  are  you  gap 
ing  at?" 

"  At  you ! "  cried  Corrie,  sharply  and  swiftly. 
185 


CORRIE  WHO? 

"  Last  night  you  promised  to  treat  me  as  I  should 
be  treated  —  as  I  insist  I  shall  be  treated,  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin.  I  am  no  longer  a  child,  I  tell  you.  You  shall 
not  keep  me  in  this  house  as  if  I  were  a  prisoner! 
Now  please  let  me  get  by." 

"Oh!  —  so  that's  it,  is  it?"  answered  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin  in  an  even,  regulated  voice.  She  leaned  back  a 
little  as  if  better  to  inspect  the  girl;  and  then  with 
a  sudden  access  of  anger,  all  the  pent-up,  raging, 
hidden  emotion  in  her  soul,  the  repressed  and  tragic 
passion  that  stirred  her,  flashed  up  into  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin's  face,  and  she  turned  on  Corrie  flaming  as  with 
the  signal  of  open  war. 

"  Stop !  "  Mrs.  Pinchin  in  emphasis  prodded  the 
wall  with  her  cane.  "  You  dare  defy  me  like  that  ?  " 
she  cried  in  a  voice  shrilly  tense  with  wrath.  "  You 
think  to  ride  me  down  —  huh !  a  chit  like  you  ?  — 
Oh !  "  she  cried,  "  you  think  that  because  I  gave  you 
a  bit  of  soft  soap  last  night  —  because  I  tried  to  make 
it  easier  for  you  —  yes,  and  for  me!  —  you  think  you 
can  gallop  over  me  rough  shod.  Do  you  know  why  I 
was  kind  to  you  ?  —  why  I  truckled  with  you,  and 
begged  you  to  stay  here  and  be  happy  —  and  con 
tented —  and  satisfied?  No  —  oh,  no  you  don't! 
You  thought  it  was  because  I  was  frightened  —  that 
maybe  there  was  something  I  was  trying  to  hide. 
Yes  —  and  that 's  what  I  get  for  bothering  my  head 
about  you.  Oh,  go  ahead,  Miss  Sly  Boots!  Snoop 
around  and  prowl  and  find  out  what  you  like.  But 
when  you  've  found  out,  don't  you  come  crying  back 
to  me.  No,  don't  you  dare,  for  I  '11  have  washed  my 

186 


YOUNG  LOVE 

hands  of  you  then.  But  you  mark  my  words !  "  She 
leaned  toward  the  quivering  girl,  and  wagged  a  thick, 
bony  finger  in  her  face.  "  You  mark  my  words ! 
When  you  've  found  out  what  you  're  trying  to 
learn,  you  '11  wish  to  go  and  hide  your  head  in 
darkness !  You  '11  wish  you  never  lived  to  see  the 
day!" 

As  the  last  words  quit  her  lips,  Mrs.  Pinchin  drew 
in  her  breath  with  a  strong,  gasping  sigh,  again  al 
most  of  the  thickness  of  a  sob ;  and  all  her  shrewlike 
rage  seeming  to  drain  itself  away,  she  leaned  back 
and  stared  at  Corrie  solemnly,  almost  with  absorb 
ing  pity. 

"  Come,  you  must  go  to  your  room,  child,"  she 
murmured,  quieted  as  if  by  her  weariness  of  the  dis 
pute  ;  "  you  are  too  young  to  understand  a  thing  like 
this.  But  some  day  it  will  be  clear  to  you.  Come  — 
obey  me  now !  " 

There  was  a  hidden  significance  in  the  words  so 
urgent  and  even  appealing  that  Corrie  was  almost 
shocked  into  obedience.  For  what  was  it  that  Mrs. 
Pinchin  strove  to  conceal?  In  her  tone  was  a  depth 
of  regret  and  trying  sadness  Corrie  had  never  heard 
before  —  as  if  she  strove  painfully,  not  for  herself, 
but,  instead,  for  one  who  seemed  determined  to  plunge 
on  wilfully  into  the  abyss  from  which  she  was  trying 
so  hard  to  save  her.  The  girl  shook  with  a  quick, 
returning  dread.  Was  it  a  warning  that  some  un 
spoken  blight  lay  behind  the  secret  that  wrapped  her 
life  in  mystery?  Yet  why  should  she  fear  even  that? 
If  indeed  so,  was  the  shame  hers?  Mrs.  Pinchin  no 

187 


CORRIE  WHO? 

doubt  read   the  struggle  going  on  in  Corrie's  mind, 
for  she  hastened  to  follow  up  her  advantage. 

"  Some  day  you.  shall  understand ;  it  shall  be  clear 
to  you  then.  But  now,  my  girl,  now  —  be  careful ! 
—  be  very  careful !  Be  guided  by  me,  and  in  the  end, 
it  shall  be  all  right  —  yes  —  perhaps." 

The  veiled  meaning  stung  the  girl  into  speech. 
"  It  shall  never  be  all  right  till  I  know!  "  she  cried 
miserably.  "  You  say  some  day  I  shall.  Then  tell 
me  now,  Mrs.  Pinchin  —  tell  me !  I  can  gain  nothing 
by  waiting."  She  paused  and  gazed  intently  at  the 
dark,  brooding  face  as  if  trying  to  read  the  secret 
there,  and  then  she  shook  her  head.  "  No,  I  see  you 
have  no  intention  of  telling  me.  Is  it  because  you 
dare  not  tell  me  the  truth?  Is  it  because  you  dare 
not  for  my  sake  —  or  is  it,  tell  me,  because  you  dare 
not  for  —  for  your  own  sake?  Tell  me  that,  Mrs. 
Pinchin." 

A  sharp  twinge,  as  if  of  pain,  convulsed  Mrs. 
Pinchin's  face.  She  drew  in  her  breath  sharply,  sigh 
ing  as  if  she  had  been  struck  a  vital  blow.  "  Oh !  " 
she  gasped,  her  face  distorted,  "  oh " 

But  whether  it  was  sorrow  or  wrath  that  moved 
her,  Corrie  was  not  to  learn.  A  noise  at  the  door  in 
terrupted;  someone  stood  in  the  vestibule,  trying 
to  get  in,  and  peering  through  the  lace  curtain  drawn 
across  the  glass.  Then  leaving  the  door,  the  person 
sprang  to  the  doorbell,  and  while  the  two  stood  watch 
ing,  he  rang,  and  the  lower  regions  of  the  house 
were  filled  with  the  clamor  of  that  signal,  —  pro 
longed,  energetic,  and  imperative. 

188 


YOUNG  LOVE 

It  was  Mr.  Stanton  again.  Mrs.  Pinchin,  forget 
ful  of  all,  even  Corrie,  seemed  suddenly  conscious  of 
the  papers  under  her  arm.  Stooping  laboriously, 
she  made  an  effort  to  shove  them  beneath  the  hall 
settee,  and  this  failing,  she  hobbled  along  the  pas 
sage  as  fast  as  her  stick  could  aid  her.  "  Stay  where 
you  are !  "  she  ordered  in  a  voice  again  filled  with 
forcible  warning;  and  reaching  her  room,  in  a  per 
fect  stampede  of  haste,  she  unlocked  the  door,  tossed 
the  papers  inside,  helter-skelter,  and  turned  the  key 
in  the  lock.  Then  she  turned,  just  in  time  to  head 
off  Maggie  at  the  basement  stairs.  "  Stay  at  your 
work,  girl.  I  '11  open  the  door." 

Corrie,  half  way  down  the  hall,  still  waited,  non 
plussed  at  Mrs.  Pinchin's  alarmed  excitement.  "  If 
you  don't  go  to  your  room,  I  '11 " 

The  remainder  of  the  sentence,  obviously  a  warn 
ing,  was  left  unsaid,  as  Mrs.  Pinchin  turned  the 
doorknob  in  answer  to  another  peal  of  the  bell.  In 
stantly  the  door  moved,  Mr.  Stanton  showed  himself, 
his  face  lighting  eagerly  as  he  saw  who  let  him  in; 
and  before  Mrs.  Pinchin  could  restrain  him,  he  began 
energetically  pouring  out  a  string  of  questions. 
Haste,  or  rather  an  un-Chesterfieldian  hurry  seemed 
to  have  robbed  Mr.  Stanton  of  his  usual  nonchalance 
and  aplomb ;  for  once  he  was  as  unrepressed  and 
animated  as  the  most  vulgar  of  the  vulgar  herd. 
"  Have  you  seen  it?  Do  you  know  what 's  happened? 
Has  anyone  told  you ?  " 

"  Hush !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Pinchin.  Clutching  her 
visitor  by  the  sleeve,  and  with  another  sharp  look  at 

189 


CORRIE  WHO? 

the  girl,  she  led  Mr.  Stanton  into  the  seclusion  of 
the  darkened  drawing-room.  A  murmur  of  voices 
followed,  restrained  yet  filled  with  a  tense  excite 
ment.  The  words  were  unintelligible,  but  Corrie  made 
no  attempt  to  listen.  She  turned  toward  the  stair, 
as  if,  at  the  last,  to  obey ;  then  biting  her  lip,  she 
swung  on  her  heel  and  went  boldly  down  the  hall. 
No  voice  challenged  from  the  drawing-room;  the 
murmur  of  talk  went  on  unchecked ;  and  reaching  the 
door,  she  flung  it  open,  and  every  moment  expecting 
to  hear  Mrs.  Pinchin  bellowing  after  her,  sped 
down  to  the  street.  There,  heading  toward  the  Park, 
she  hurried  away,  and  a  moment  later,  almost  breath 
lessly  turned  the  corner. 

In  the  words  of  Mr.  Stanton,  the  bird,  indeed,  had 
flitted  —  had  flown  from  its  gilded  nest ! 

No  one  pursued.  Crossing  the  broad  avenue  to 
the  walk  beside  the  Park,  she  reduced  her  pace  to  a 
more  leisurely  gait,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  distant  en 
trance.  Overhead,  the  spring  sun  had  climbed  to  a 
cloudless  height,  and  the  day  momentarily  grew 
warmer  and  more  alluring.  Corrie  drew  in  her 
breath  with  a  sigh  of  relief.  Over  the  low  parapet 
that  walls  the  Park,  her  eye  wandered  along  the  sweep 
of  broad  lawns,  brilliant  in  their  vernal  greens,  and 
rested  on  the  mazes  of  shrubbery,  now  just  beginning 
to  color  with  awakening  life.  An  early  May-day 
party,  crowding  the  season,  romped  along  the  nearest 
turf,  and  the  air  was  filled  with  the  gay  treble  of 
childish  voices,  shouting  gleefully  as  they  caught  a 
flash  of  silver  where  the  lake  revealed  itself  through 

190 


YOUNG  LOVE 

the  lattice  of  budding  twigs.  A  bridle  path  wound 
among  the  trees  beneath  the  hill,  and,  as  Corrie 
looked,  a  group  of  equestrians  cantered  into  view;  a 
slender  girl  of  Corrie's  own  age  mounted  on  a  tall, 
upstanding  bay,  and  two  young  men;  one  on  a 
square,  broad-gaited  cob,  the  other  on  a  lean,  racy 
chestnut,  whose  coat  gleamed  silkily  in  the  shafts  of 
light  pouring  through  the  arched  branches  above. 
As  the  three  reached  the  turn  to  the  long,  gentle 
slope  that  leads  up  to  the  archway  under  the  drive, 
the  girl  gave  her  bay  his  head,  and  with  a  gay  cry 
and  a  challenging  wave  of  her  hand,  dashed  out  in 
the  lead,  her  trim  figure  swaying  itself  to  the  long, 
burning  stride  of  her  mount.  Away  they  went,  the 
girl's  laughter  sounding  above  the  scurry  of  hoofs, 
the  two  lads  following,  each  with  his  head  bent  over 
his  horse's  neck  and  an  arm  upraised  to  shield  off 
the  hail  of  loam  thrown  up  by  the  slashing  heels  in 
front.  A  mounted  policeman  at  the  crest  raised  a 
reproving  finger,  and  dragging  down  her  mount  to 
an  easy  hand-canter  the  girl  passed  on  out  of  sight, 
an  echo  of  her  high-spirited  merriment  drifting 
back  long  after  she  had  disappeared  from  view. 

Corrie  gently  sighed.  A  longing  that  she,  too, 
might  share  a  little  of  such  care-free,  young  and 
wholesome  existence  stole  like  a  shadow  over  her 
heart  —  a  little  pang  of  envy  that  was  not  to  be 
stilled.  But  j  oy  and  freedom  and  the  liberty  of  high 
spirits  had  been  denied  to  her  as  all  else  had  been  de 
nied  —  even  as  she  had  been  denied  a  child's  privilege 
of  childhood.  There  was  no  conscious  self-pity  in 

191 


CORRIE  WHO? 

the  thought,  only  the  growing  pang  of  resentment 
that  so  much  had  been  taken  from  her. 

There  were  few  in  the  Park  as  yet,  only  the  morn 
ing's  vanguard  that  later  would  swell  into  a  glitter 
ing,  varied  throng  of  idlers.  Along  the  paths  lagged 
the  inevitable  mob  of  nursemaids  and  their  charges, 
or,  choosing  a  sunny  bench,  they  sat  and  gossiped 
shrilly ;  and  mixed  in  among  them  were  the  other 
early  stragglers,  the  every-day  assortment  that  drift 
in  of  a  morning ;  the  old  and  the  young,  the  respect 
able  and  the  unclassed,  the  washed  and  the  unwashed 
—  a  park  crowd  in  all  its  incongruous  makeup  of 
types  and  kinds  and  classes.  There  were  the  usual 
early  morning  old  gentlemen  cheerfully  taking  the 
prescribed  constitutional,  or  sunning  themselves  on 
the  benches ;  the  usual  procession  of  spring-time  con 
valescents,  limping  or  led  or  wheeled  along;  the 
usual  array  of  night  birds  slouched  down  in  their 
seats,  with  one  hazy  eye  cast  slyly  in  the  direction 
of  the  nearest  policeman.  Then,  too,  there  were  the 
habitual  couples  sheepishly  conscious  of  themselves 
and  hurriedly  seeking  unfrequented  nooks;  the 
wonted  parade  of  spiritless  men  leading  —  or  being 
led  —  by  their  wives'  more  cherished  pets  —  poodles, 
spaniels,  black  and  tans,  Yorkshires,  Skyes  and  what 
nots ;  so  forth  and  so  on.  One  found  them  all  in 
that  early  morning  crowd,  and  the  procession  that 
flowed  up  and  down  the  paths,  and  in  and  out  at  the 
entrances  was  as  variegated  and  picturesque  in  its 
assembly,  as  absorbed  and  as  absorbing,  as  only  a 
New  York  may  provide.  Along  the  driveways  pa- 

192 


YOUNG  LOVE 

raded  the  other  part  of  it;  the  buggies,  runabouts, 
tilburys,  mailwagons  and  dogcarts;  the  Hempstead 
carts  with  something  horsey  in  the  shafts ;  the  occa 
sional  brougham  with  its  shutters  down  and  the  coach 
man  in  undress  whipcords  —  or,  if  the  shades  were 
up  and  its  driver  in  livery,  one  saw  something  pam 
pered  lying  back  among  the  cushions  and  peevishly 
braving  the  air.  Motor  cars  of  every  known  kind 
and  description  roared  their  way  in  and  out  among 
the  other  vehicles,  nearly  all  bound  southward  to  the 
city,  and  then,  as  if  the  world  were  to  omit  nothing 
from  the  display,  came  an  occasional  lone  and  soli 
tary  bicycle  perilously  threading  its  way  among  the 
traffic. 

As  Corrie  reached  the  Park  entrance  she  halted  a 
moment  and  gazed  expectantly  down  the  broad 
stretch  of  Seventy-second  Street  toward  the  Elevated, 
where  Columbus  Avenue  with  its  surface  cars,  its 
wagons,  and  the  sidewalks  crowded  with  early  morn 
ing  patrons  of  the  shops,  flowed  past  like  the  glimpse 
of  a  lively  stream.  A  train  had  just  pulled  in  at  the 
uptown  station,  and  already  its  passengers,  reaching 
the  street,  were  beginning  to  disperse  in  different 
directions.  But  neither  among  them  nor  among  the 
others  heading  for  the  Park  was  the  tall,  alert  figure 
she  looked  for.  Realizing  she  was  ahead  of  time,  and 
perhaps  a  little  conscious  of  her  eagerness,  she 
walked  past  the  entrance  without  turning  in,  intend 
ing  to  dawdle  away  the  few  remaining  minutes  before 
he  came.  It  may  have  been  well  that  she  did  so  — 
yet  why?  At  all  events,  as  she  swung  about  to 
13  193 


CORRIE  WHO? 

retrace  her  steps,  a  light  brougham  drawn  by  a  pair 
of  antique  roans  rattled  across  the  car  tracks  in 
front  of  the  Park  entrance,  and  hobbled  away  down 
the  drive.  It  was  Mrs.  Pinchin's  carriage,  and  as 
it  flashed  by  in  the  distance,  Corrie  had  an  in 
stant's  view  of  a  massive,  stalwart  frame  reclining 
among  the  cushions  —  of  a  large,  dark,  heavy  face 
intently  peering  ahead. 

The  girl  was  still  staring  after  this  vision,  when 
she  was  aware  of  a  young  man  in  tweeds  hurriedly 
crossing  the  avenue.  He,  too,  was  staring  after  the 
carriage,  having  seen  who  sat  inside,  but  once  the 
carriage  had  disappeared  he  turned,  and  with  a  smile 
came  hurrying  toward  her. 

"  Have  I  kept  you  waiting?  "  he  asked,  his  eyes 
brightening  with  frank  admiration  as  he  looked  at 
her.  "  My !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  I  'm  hardly  able  to 
recognize  you  when  you  're  away  from  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin's.  You  look  so  different." 

"  Indeed ! "  remarked  Corrie,  coloring  faintly, 
though  not  in  the  least  displeased. 

He  caught  the  little  flush,  and  at  once  became 
humble.  "  Oh,  please !  I  hope  you  're  not  vexed 
with  me?  "  He  looked  at  her  closely  as  if  to  make 
sure  she  was  n't,  and  Corrie  frowned  severely.  "  I 
mean  you  're  dressed  differently,  and  you  have  on 
a  hat.  Then,  besides,  your  hair  is  n't  so  —  oh,  you 
can  go  ahead  and  laugh,  if  you  like.  But  it 's 
true!" 

"  I  'm  not  laughing !  "  protested  Corrie,  stoutly, 
blushing  again;  "I  was  just  wondering  what  else 

194 


YOUNG  LOVE 

you  'd  discovered  about  me.  Do  all  young  men  pay 
such  close  attention  to  the  young  women  they  happen 
to  know?  " 

"  Some  do,"  he  answered  promptly  and  impres 
sively  ;  "  particularly  when " 

"When  what?"  demanded  Corrie,  unconsciously, 
"  when  they  have  on  a  hat  ?  " 

"  Such  a  pretty  hat,"  he  corrected,  glancing  at 
her  toque. 

"  Just  fancy !  Well,  I  made  the  hat  myself.  And 
I  made  my  dress,  too,  if  you  'd  like  to  know." 
.  "  Perfectly  splendid !  "  he  declared  admiringly ; 
though  instead  of  looking  at  her  dress,  he  stole 
another  glance  at  the  girl's  eyes  and  at  her  face, 
sparkling  with  animation.  "  And  I  should  say,  too, 
that  you  did  up  your  own  hair  this  morning,  if 
you  '11  allow  me." 

"  Mercy !  what 's  wrong  with  it  ?  "  exclaimed  Cor 
rie,  hastily  feeling  whether  any  of  the  soft  wisps  had 
fallen  out  of  place. 

"  Wrong !  Why,  on  the  contrary,  I  think  it 's 
just " 

"  Shall  we  go  into  the  Park?  "  interrupted  Corrie, 
hurriedly.  "  It 's  very  nice  in  there  in  the  morning. 
I  always  take  my  walks  here,  alone  usually,  though 
sometimes " 

"  Oh !  "  inquiringly. 

"  Sometimes,  Mr.  Geikie,  I  wander  here  with 
another,"  laughed  Corrie,  provokingly.  "  I  rarely 
lack  company,  you  know." 

"  No,  I  suppose  not ! "  he  responded  without  en- 
195 


CORRIE  WHO? 

thusiasm.  "  There  are  always  a  lot  of  lucky  duffers 
who  can  get  off  every  morning,  if  they  choose." 

Corrie  laughed  at  him  openly.  "  You  'd  better  not 
let  Mrs.  Pinchin  or  Miss  Maria  hear  you  say  that," 
she  warned.  "  They  might  object  to  being  termed 
lucky  duffers." 

"Mrs.  Pinchin  —  or  Miss  Maria?  I  didn't  men 
tion  either.  I  meant  the  chaps  who  go  out  walking 
with  you.  They  're  the  ones." 

She  smiled  lightly  at  the  suggestion.  "  You  're 
the  only  one  I  've  ever  walked  with,  Mr.  Geikie,"  said 
Corrie,  shaking  her  head ;  "  under  ordinary  circum 
stances,  I  come  here  with  Miss  Maria,  or,  on  occa 
sion,  with  Mrs.  Pinchin  herself.  You  see,  I  don't 
know  any  young  men ;  you  're  the  only  one  I  've 
ever  met." 

He  looked  at  her  in  astonishment.  "  Do  you  really 
mean  that?  Why,  where  have  you  lived  all  your 
life  —  in  a  nunnery  ?  " 

"  No  —  I  've  lived  at  Mrs.  Pinchin's,"  she  answered 
quietly,  certain,  at  all  events,  that  to  herself  it  ex 
plained  everything.  "  But  don't  let 's  talk  about 
that,"  she  murmured,  with  a  little  frown.  "  Can't 
we  be  serious?  " 

They  had  entered  the  Park  during  this  momentary 
conversation.  Reaching  the  drive,  they  crossed 
northward  past  that  amazing  example  of  the  foun 
dry  molder's  art,  the  bulk  of  metal  that  may  be  a 
statue,  but  is  certainly  not,  as  alleged,  the  statue  of 
Daniel  Webster.  It  upreared  itself  there  in  an  atti 
tude  as  if  it  had  just  asked  alms  of  the  passing 

196 


YOUNG  LOVE 

throng,  and  had  been  haughtily  refused,  its  posture 
all  the  more  affecting  because  of  the  nest  some  spar 
row  had  built  in  its  nerveless  fingers.  But  beyond 
this  foundry  exhibit  was  something  more  natural  — 
more  like  nature  —  winding  paths  that  led  unex 
pectedly  into  quiet,  unfrequented  nooks;  little  hills 
and  vales,  lone  and  secluded,  stretches  of  shadowy 
thickets  and  treeland  that  were  almost  like  a  bit  of 
countryside.  Until  they  reached  this  quiet,  they 
seemed  anxious  to  avoid  the  topic  that  had  brought 
them  together  this  morning;  but  once  they  were 
alone  —  alone,  if  one  omitted  the  few  stragglers 
drifting  aimlessly  along  the  paths  —  he  turned  to 
her  suddenly.  "  Now  please  tell  me  what  happened 
to  you  —  about  Mrs.  Pinchin,  I  mean.  You  said  it 
was  dreadful." 

Corrie  thoughtfully  lowered  her  eyes ;  for  the  mo 
ment,  she  made  no  answer.  "  What  is  it?  "  he  asked, 
her  puckered  brow  telling  him  that  something  troub 
lous  lay  on  her  mind.  "  Is  there  any  reason  why  you 
don't  like  to  tell  what  has  happened?  " 

She  nodded  slowly.  "  Yes."  She  thought  a  mo 
ment  longer,  and  then  turned  to  him  impulsively. 
"  Please  don't  think  me  stupid  —  foolish  —  or  any 
thing  like  that.  But  I  wish  you  would  tell  me  this: 
Is  it  right  for  me  to  tell  what  goes  on  in  that  house? 
I  wish  you  'd  tell  me  frankly.  You  know,"  she  cried, 
with  a  little  regretful  laugh,  "  I  've  never  had  anyone 
to  guide  me  —  to  tell  me  what  is  right  and  wrong  in 
a  puzzle  like  this.  I  wish  to  tell  you  everything;  I 
know  I  can  trust  you ;  but  still  Mrs.  Pinchin's  house 

197 


CORRIE  WHO? 

is  my  home,  such  as  it  is,  and  its  secrets  seem  hardly 
the  thing  to  talk  about.  Won't  you  tell  me  what  I 
should  do?" 

He  shook  his  head.  "  I  confess  I  don't  know,"  he 
said  quietly.  "  You  must  n't  tell  me  anything  that 
will  hurt  you  to  tell.  I  wished  to  know  what  had  hap 
pened,  only  because  of  the  hope  that  I  might  help 
you.  I  think  I  could,  too,  if  you  would  let  me." 

A  little  tremor  shook  Corrie.  "  I  know  you  would," 
she  answered  softly ;  "  you  seem  to  be  the  only 
friend  I  've  ever  had.  Do  you  really  wish  to  know 
about  Mrs.  Pinchin?  Shall  I  tell  you  why  I  tried  to 
find  out  something  about  her  from  you  and  your 
mother  and  uncle?  Do  you  really  wish  to  know?  " 

Again  he  shook  his  head.  "  No,  not  if  it  would 
pain  you  to  tell  me.  And  besides " 

"  Besides  —  what  ?  "  she  prompted,  when  he 
faltered. 

"  Well,"  he  responded  softly,  "  I  know  —  or, 
rather,  I  have  guessed  why  you  have  tried  to  find 
out." 

The  color  crept  slowly  into  Corrie's  face,  and  then 
as  slowly  faded  away.  "  You  say  you  know  ?  " 

"  Yes.  How  could  I  help  guessing  it,  when  I  've 
thought  of  it  so  much.  You  told  me  enough,  yes 
terday,  to  let  me  understand."  Then  he  caught 
sight  of  the  cloud  in  the  gjrl's  eyes.  "  I  am  so 
sorry,"  he  whispered  softly. 

Corrie  looked  up  at  him,  her  face  composed  again, 
though  the  old,  shadowy,  wistful  expression  still 
lingered  in  her  eyes.  "  Yes,  you  have  guessed  it,"  she 

198 


YOUNG  LOVE 

murmured.     "  I  was  trying  to  find  out  about  myself 

—  not  who  Mrs.  Pinchin  is.     I  was  trying  not  only 
to  find  that  out,  but  more  —  not  only  who  I  am,  but 

—  well,  even  more  than  that.     I  have  been  trying  for 
years,  —  ever  since  I  was  a  little  girl." 

Then  she  turned  away,  her  eyes  misty,  fearful  lest 
he  see  her  emotion.  But  he  did  see  it,  and  straight 
way,  with  a  ready  sympathy,  did  his  best  to  comfort 
her.  "  You  must  n't  feel  that  way  about  it,"  he  re 
monstrated  cheerfully.  "  I  'm  sure  we  're  going  to 
straighten  it  out." 

Driving  back  her  emotion,  Corrie  looked  up  again 
with  a  smile.  "  Well,  you  know  now,"  she  said 
quietly,  "  and  now  that  I  've  told  you,  what  do  you 
think  of  it?" 

"  Poor  little  girl !  "  he  whispered. 

In  a  few  moments,  they  had  left  the  peopled 
quarter  of  the  Park  behind,  and  now  were  really  and 
wholly  alone,  hedged  in  by  walls  of  shrubbery,  and 
with  only  an  impertinent,  scampering  squirrel  for 
company,  and  the  birds  who  mated  there,  together 
forgetful  of  the  city  that  lay  so  close  beyond. 
Corrie  was  the  first  to  speak  again. 

"  I  wish  to  tell  you  everything,"  she  said  simply, 
"  because  somehow  I  feel  that  you  are  one  in  whom  I 
can  really  confide.  I  've  never  had  anyone  before, 
you  know." 

So  quietly  she  gave  him  the  story,  nothing  omitted, 
all  her  secret  revealed.  She  told  him  of  all  her  child 
hood  at  Mrs.  Pinchin's,  of  Mrs.  Pinchin's  oppression, 
and  of  the  cruelty  of  that  moment  when  Mrs.  Pinchin, 

199 


CORRIE  WHO? 

in  her  cold  anger  and  contempt,  had  dubbed  her  with 
a  name,  choosing  it  outlandishly  from  the  vulgar 
term  —  Brown,  Smith,  and  Robinson.  She  told  him, 
too,  of  the  nights  when  she  had  sat  up  in  bed  in  the 
dark,  crying  Corrie  Who?  and,  afterward,  Corrie 
What?  All  this  she  repeated  simply,  unreservedly, 
and  without  affectation ;  and  the  boy's  face  reflected 
her  own  trouble  that  came  with  the  bitter  memories. 
"  Oh ! "  he  exclaimed,  shocked,  when  Corrie  came  to 
the  part  where  Mrs.  Pinchin  had  held  the  child  be 
tween  her  knees  and  rapped  out  the  threat :  —  "  Your 
father,  hey?  "  Rap!  tap!  —  a  bailiff's  double  knock. 
"You'd  better  not  speak  of  your  father!"  Rap! 
tap!  "  Oh!  "  he  exclaimed,  flushing  painfully.  Cor 
rie  went  on,  undeterred. 

"  No,  I  mean  to  tell  you  everything ! "  she  de 
clared.  So  word  by  word,  deed  by  deed,  scene  by 
scene,  the  whole  story  poured  from  her,  all  of  it 
down  to  the  time  when,  filled  with  her  trouble,  she 
had  begun  her  guileless  effort  to  unravel  the  tangle 
unaided.  "  It  was  really  you  who  gave  me  the  first 
hint,"  she  added  thankfully.  "  You  told  me  of  the 
house  down  there  in  that  out-of-the-way  corner  of 
the  city.  And  if  it  had  n't  been  for  you,  I  might 
never  have  found  it." 

But  the  remembrance  scarcely  pleased  him. 
"  Don't !  I  wish  you  would  n't  speak  of  that !  "  he 
protested  sharply.  *'  I  did  n't  dream  that  this  was 
serious.  I  hope  you  '11  forgive  me  for  that  bungling 
business  —  sending  you  to  my  mother's  house." 

"  If  you  had  n't,  perhaps  I  should  never  have 
200 


YOUNG  LOVE 

learned  anything.     Now  there,  seems  to  be  a  chance 
of  finding  it  out." 

He  looked  at  her  closely.  "  Have  n't  you  a  guess, 
yet  ?  "  he  asked  cautiously.  "  I  mean,  have  n't  you 
thought  who  Mrs.  Pinchin  may  be  —  and  about  the 
Tollabees  —  and  what  Mrs.  Pinchin  may  be  to  you?  " 

She  shook  her  head.     "  No,  I  have  n't  guessed  any 
thing.     But  I  believe  when  Mrs.  Pinchin's  real  iden- 
,tity  is  known,  I  shall  learn  something  about  myself. 
Of  that  I  am  convinced,  though  I  can  guess  nothing 
more." 

He  was  still  watching  her  intently.  "  Listen, 
Corrie,"  he  began,  and  then  flushed  awkwardly.  "  I 
mean,  Miss  Robinson " 

"  No,  don't  —  not  that.  I  detest  the  sound  of  it, 
and  I  don't  mind  the  other  in  the  least.  It  sounds 
friendly  —  and  you  are  my  friend,  are  n't  you  ?  " 
She  smiled,  and  then,  as  if  to  stay  the  impulsive 
words  that  seemed  hovering  on  his  lips,  she  laid  a 
hand  on  his  arm.  "  You  are  the  only  friend  I  know," 
she  said  simply,  "  and  I  hope  you  will  always  re 
main  one." 

But  at  the  light  in  his  eyes,  Corrie's  color  came 
again,  and  she  walked  on  a  little  faster. 

"  Now,"  said  Corrie,  slowing  down  a  little,  "  let 's 
be  just  plain  matter-of-fact.  You  haven't  told  me 
about  the  advertisement  yet." 

"No,  I  haven't,"  he  admitted  candidly.  "I 
rather  hoped  you  'd  wait  until  I  found  out  some 
thing.  Then,  if  you  '11  be  really,  tijuly  good,  I  may 
tell  you  something,"  he  laughed. 

201 


CORRIE  WHO? 

"  Oh,  indeed ! "  Corrie  wrinkled  her  brow  again. 
"  I  don't  see  any  reason  why  you  should  laugh  about 
it,  though.  Are  n't  you  going  to  tell  me  everything 
now,  or  are  you  going  to  be  just  as  hateful  as  Mrs. 
Pinchin?" 

He  laughed  again  at  her  gaily.  "  Just  wait  — 
that 's  all." 

"  But  how  are  you  going  to  find  out  about  the 
advertisement,  anyway?  "  she  demanded. 

"  How?  Why,  in  the  simplest  way  imaginable. 
I  've  answered  it." 

"  You  Ve  answered  it !  "  Corrie  cried  out  in  as 
tonishment.  "  How  in  the  world  did  you  ever  think 
of  doing  that?  " 

Still  again  he  laughed.  "  Does  n't  anyone  ever 
answer  advertisements,  simple? "  he  inquired  pro- 
vokingly. 

"  Well,  how  should  I  know  —  and  besides,  you 
sha'  n't  call  me  simple,  either.  I  just  wished  to  know 
how  you  came  to  do  such  an  unheard-of  thing." 

"  All  by  myself,  of  course,"  he  answered,  amused 
at  her  earnestness.  "  I  suppose  Uncle  Phil  would  be 
tearing  angry  if  he  heard  about  it,  because  last 
night  he  took  the  pains  to  warn  me  to  keep  my 
hands  off  this  business.  I  think  they  know  some 
thing  they  don't  dare  repeat ;  at  all  events,  it  looks 
as  if  they  were  busy  guessing,  and  growing  all  the 
more  scared  at  every  guess.  This  morning  I  showed 
the  advertisement  to  Uncle  Phil,  and  he  nearly 
jumped  down  my  throat.  He  warned  me  again  to 
keep  my  hands  out  of  it,  or  there  'd  be  trouble.  But 

202 


YOUNG  LOVE 

that  did  n't  keep  me  from  trying  to  find  out.  I 
wrote  to  this  Earnest,  whoever  he  may  be,  and  told 
him  that  if  he  'd  communicate  with  me.  he  might  hear 
something  to  his  advantage." 

"  But  what  are  you  going  to  tell  him  when  he  ap 
pears  ?  Do  you  know  anything  about  the  Tollabees  ?  " 

"Tell  him?"  echoed  Phil,  "why  I'm  going  to 
tell  him  nothing  at  all.  But  that  won't  prevent  me 
from  making  a  lively  effort  to  find  out  what  he 's 
after,  you  may  be  sure.  I  won't  open  my  mouth 
until  he  lets  out  what  he  's  after." 

Corrie  was  frowning  at  him  severely.  "  I  never 
heard  of  such  duplicity !  "  she  cried.  "  Do  you  think 
it  right?  I  don't!" 

"  Oh,  you  don't  say  so !  "  he  laughed.  "  That 's  a 
nice  thing  to  tell  me,  particularly  when  I  'm  doing  it 
only  for  your  sake." 

"  If  that 's  the  case,  I  have  a  good  mind  to  say  you 
sha'n't  do  it." 

"  Oh,  well,"  he  answered,  twinkling  at  her,  "  if 
you  feel  that  way  about  it,  I  won't  play  any 
tricks  on  him.  The  fact  of  the  matter  is  that  I 
really  know  very  little  about  the  Tollabees.  I  know 
that  Randolph  Tollabee  is  dead;  so  is  his  wife,  too. 
And  that 's  about  all." 

"  Why,  was  he  married  ? "  exclaimed  Corrie. 
*'  Why,  of  course !  —  now  that  I  stop  to  think  about 
it,  he  must  have  been." 

A  sudden  thought  struck  her,  a  flash  of  illumin 
ing  light,  something  that  confirmed  the  hazy 
thought  that  long  had  drifted  through  her  mind. 

203 


CORRIE  WHO? 

"  Tell  me,"  she  pleaded  swiftly,  "  did  Randolph  Tol- 
labee  leave  a  child?  Can  you  tell  me  that?  " 

Phil,  as  if  trying  to  dissemble,  did  his  best  to  look 
blankly  at  the  distance.  "  I  really  don't  know,"  he 
answered  slowly.  "  If  you  care  to  know,  that 's  what 
I  'm  trying  to  find  out." 

"  Oh !  "  —  and  after  that  Oh!  Corrie  fell  silently 
into  thought. 

They  had  reached  the  crest  of  a  little  hill  where 
the  path  wound  downward  to  a  quiet  stream  arched 
by  a  narrow,  rustic  bridge.  As  they  reached  it, 
they  paused  and  leaned  over  the  hand  rail,  absorbed 
in  themselves,  and  glad  of  the  quiet  and  loneliness  of 
that  hidden  spot. 

"  There  's  one  thing  more  I  'd  like  to  know,"  said 
Corrie,  after  a  pause.  "  Have  you  ever  heard  the 
name  of  —  I  mean,  will  you  tell  me  the  name  of 
Randolph  Tollabee's  wife?  You  remember  it,  don't 
you?" 

"  Yes,  I  recall  it.  I  overheard  mother  and  Uncle 
Phil  talking  about  her  last  night.  She  was  a  young 
Frenchwoman  —  Leonie  Giraud." 

"  Leonie  —  Leonie  Giraud !  "  Corrie  repeated  the 
name  softly,  murmuring  it  again,  not  as  if  trying 
to  recall  it,  for  she  had  never  heard  it  before;  but 
as  if  she  must  remember  it  always  in  the  future. 

"Haven't  you  ever  heard  it  before?"  he  asked; 
for  once  the  name  had  left  his  lips  he  had  looked  at 
her  sharply,  as  if  trying  to  learn  whether  she  had 
ever  heard  it.  But  Corrie  had  never  heard  it  before, 
as  he  saw.  "  No,  of  course  you  would  n't  remember 

204 


YOUNG  LOVE 

it,"  he  said.  "  You  could  n't  recall  the  name  any 
more  than  you  should  know  my  Uncle  Stanwood  mar 
ried  a  Tollabee.  In  fact,  if  you  did  n't  know  one 
fact,  it  is  n't  likely  you  'd  know  the  other.  But  still," 
he  added  scornfully,  "  it 's  a  question  whether  Uncle 
Stanwood  ever  did  marry." 

Corrie  looked  at  him  vaguely. 

"  It  is  n't  a  very  pleasant  thing  to  talk  about," 
he  answered  dubiously.  "It's  just  this:  Uncle 
Stanwood  seems  to  have  tricked  Margaret  Tollabee 
in  the  same  way  he  tricked  everyone  else  who  was 
unfortunate  enough  to  trust  him.  No  one  knows  to 
this  day  whether  he  really  married  her  or  not.  I 
understand  he  has  even  denied  it.  But  I  say ! "  he 
cried,  changing  the  subject  abruptly,  as  if  eager  to 
get  away  from  it,  "  It  did  stir  up  the  family  when  I 
told  mother  and  uncle  about  the  photograph  album 

—  the  one  you  have  stowed  away  in  the  garret." 

"  Did  it  ?  I  don't  see  why,"  answered  Corrie 
idly,  much  too  absorbed  with  the  one  sweet  echo 
ringing  through  her  mind  to  pay  heed  to  anything 
else  —  the  echo  of  the  name,  alluring  in  its  euphony 

—  Leonie  Giraud,  the  dead  young  wife  of  Randolph 
Tollabee.     Leonie  Giraud! 

"What  pictures  are  in  your  album?"  he  asked, 
with  an  assumed  carelessness ;  too  careless,  perhaps, 
to  have  deceived  anyone  but  the  absorbed  girl. 
"About  the  usual  kind,  I  take  it,  aren't  they?"  he 
suggested  laughingly.  "  You  know  the  kind  I  mean, 
don't  you,  —  the  kind  they  always  drag  out  to  bore 
still  further  the  evening's  bored  visitors  —  pictures 

205 


CORRIE  WHO? 

of  elderly  gentlemen  posing  at  marble-topped  tables 
—  draped  curtain  behind  —  hand  in  coat  breast  — 
and  scowling  as  if  they  were  determined  to  look 
pleasant  ?  Is  n't  that  it  —  and  along  with  these,  a 
few  middle-aged  females  with  corkscrew  curls  —  first 
cousins  twice  removed?  Most  of  them  look  as  if  they 
ought  to  be  removed  altogether." 

Corrie  laughed  lightly  at  the  description.  "  No  — 
not  all,  I  should  say."  In  a  few  words  she  de 
scribed  the  faces  in  the  album,  sobering  as  she  told 
of  the  picture  of  that  dark-eyed  woman,  the  softness 
of  whose  dark  eyes  and  quiet  smile  still  shone  unob- 
scured  from  the  faded,  yellowing  print.  Who  was 
she?  And  the  thought  brought  its  answering  thought 
— a  question,  yet  perhaps  the  truth — Leonie  Giraud? 

"  But  you  've  left  out  the  young  ones,  have  n't 
you?  "  suggested  Phil,  smilingly,  when  Corrie  had 
finished  her  description.  "  Are  n't  there  young 
hopefuls  in  the  album  —  the  darling  prides  of  the 
family?  There  must  be  a  lot  of  those,  of  course." 

Corrie  told  him  no ;  there  was  only  one  picture  of 
a  child  —  the  child  held  in  the  arms  of  the  tall,  grave 
man  in  mourning.  Phil  listened  alertly,  while  Corrie 
told  of  it.- 

But  all  this  was  fated  to  come  to  a  sudden  and,  to 
her,  utterly  unexpected  end.  "  Do  you  know,"  he 
said  urgently,  "  my  mother  and  Uncle  Phil  wish  to 
see  that  book  of  yours.  Can't  you  take  it  to  them 
this  afternoon." 

Corrie  thought  for  a  moment.  "  I  'd  like  to  do  it 
to-day,"  she  answered,  after  a  moment's  reflection; 

206 


YOUNG  LOVE 

"  but  I  can't  get  away  this  afternoon.     Would  to 
morrow  do  ?    I  shall  be  free  then." 

For  there  had  come  to  her  the  swift  remembrance 
that  on  the  morrow  she  would  be  free  of  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin  —  free  from  the  imprisonment  of  that  house. 
Once  she  had  left  Mrs.  Pinchin's  she  would  be  her 
own  mistress,  free  and  unfettered,  privileged  to  go 
and  come  as  she  liked.  But  on  top  of  this  came 
still  another  thought.  "  But  does  your  mother  wish 
to  see  me?  "  she  asked  simply.  "  Has  she  forgiven 
me?  Perhaps  I  should  n't  go  to  see  her  until  she 
herself  has  asked  me." 

"  Oh,  nonsense !  "  he  declared.  "  Mother  is  very 
anxious  to  see  you.  Why  can't  you  come  to-day,  as 
well  as  to-morrow?  Can't  you  get  away  from  Mrs. 
Pinchin?" 

"  No,  not  to-day,"  answered  Corrie,  and  looked  at 
him  to  see  what  he  'd  think  when  she  told  him.  "  But 
to-morrow,  Mrs.  Pinchin  won't  have  anything  to  say 
about  it." 

Phil  looked  at  her,  puzzled.  "  Why,  is  she  going 
away  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  No,  but  I  am,"  answered  Corrie,  clearly.  "  I  'm 
going  to  leave  Mrs.  Pinchin.  I  can't  stay  there  any 
longer." 

But  at  the  look  of  dismay  in  his  face  she  laid  a 
restraining  hand  on  his  arm.  "  You  don't  under 
stand.  Yes,  I  am  going  to  leave  her,"  she  said  with 
a  quiet  dignity.  "  I  cannot  tell  you  what  she  has 
said  and  done ;  but  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  go  on 
living  in  that  house.  I  must  find  some  other  place." 

207 


CORRIE  WHO? 

He  hardly  waited  for  her  to  finish.  "  But  you 
must  n't  do  that,  Corrie ! "  he  cried  energetically. 
"  You  can't  leave  there  until  you  have  found  an 
other  place  to  live.  You  must  n't  think  of  it ! "  he 
cried  vehemently.  "  I  can't  let  you  do  anything  like 
that." 

"  But  I  must.  I  shall,"  she  insisted  gently.  "  I 
shall  find  something  to  do;  there  will  be  some  way 
for  me  to  get  along.  It  is  n't  so  very  dreadful,  after 
all.  Many  other  girls  have  done  it." 

"  Yes,  and  many  have "  He  broke  off  help 
lessly  ;  the  idea  of  a  girl  as  young  and  innocent  as 
she  was,  trying  to  get  on,  alone  and  unaided,  in  a 
place  like  New  York,  filled  him  with  dismay.  The 
thought  reduced  him  to  arguments  he  dared  not  utter 
to  her;  in  all  probability,  she  would  not  even  have 
understood  them. 

But  Corrie  seemed  determined.  "  I  have  my  mu 
sic,"  she  said,  filled  with  innocent  courage,  all  the 
more  affecting  to  him  because  of  its  innocence. 
"  That  will  support  me." 

He  still  stared  at  her,  disconcerted  and  dismayed. 
A  girl  like  that  alone  and  unprotected.  "  No,  you 
can't  do  it,"  he  said  determinedly.  "  It 's  impossi 
ble,  I  tell  you.  Oh,  see  here,  Corrie,  you  must  prom 
ise  me  you  won't  do  anything  like  that.  I  can't 
prevent  you,  of  course ;  but  is  n't  there  anything 
to  make  you  change  your  mind?  Go  back  to  Mrs. 
Pinchin's,  won't  you?  "  he  pleaded  earnestly,  "  and 
stay  there  a  while.  It  won't  be  for  long,  I  'm  sure. 
Corrie,  promise  me,  won't  you?  " 

208 


Then,  before  she  had  dreamed  of  it,  her  face  turned  itself  up 
to  his,  her  eyes  suffused  with  tears. 


YOUNG  LOVE 

His  hand  slipped  along  the  railing  of  the  bridge 
and  gripped  hers  tightly.  She  thrilled  at  the  touch. 
"  You  '11  promise  me,  won't  you,  dear,  dear  little 
girl?  "  he  whispered,  his  voice  urgent  and  masterful; 
and  with  the  woman's  love  of  being  led  and  con 
trolled,  she  thrilled,  too,  at  that.  "  Don't  you  see 
what  it  means  to  me  ?  "  he  asked,  looking  down  at 
her,  his  face  filled  with  concern. 

Again  the  color  crept  into  her  cheeks,  burning  a 
moment,  only  to  fade  away.  She  dared  not  look 
up  at  him,  for  she  was  trembling,  dreading  to  let 
him  see  the  answering  emotion  in  her  own  eyes. 
"  Look  up  at  me !  Promise  now ! "  he  persisted, 
and  then  his  arm  drew  her  to  him.  "  Will  you 
promise?  " 

Her  courage  gave  way  there.  She  dared  not  look 
at  him,  indeed,  or,  still  less,  to  trust  herself  to  speak. 
But  he  would  not  be  denied.  "  I  am  waiting,"  he 
said.  "  You  cannot  go  until  you  promise  me." 

"  Yes  —  I  promise !  "  she  whispered  faintly. 
"But  —  oh!  why  do  you  make  me?" 

Then,  before  she  had  dreamed  of  it,  her  face 
turned  itself  up  to  his,  her  eyes  suffused  with  tears, 
and  she  was  lying  in  his  arms  —  white,  quivering, 
unable  —  numbly  waiting  the  moment  when  his  lips, 
hovering  above  hers,  should  claim  what  they  sought. 
"  Corrie ! "  he  murmured,  "  my  dear  little  girl." 
He  bent  closer,  and  at  the  whispered  name,  her 
heart  again  throbbed  its  answer  to  his.  "  Cor 
rie  !  "  —  and  then,  as  if  at  an  awakening  call,  she 
realized. 

14  209 


CORRIE  WHO? 

"  No,  no !  you  shall  not ! "  she  cried,  distressed. 
"  No " 

Instantly  he  released  her.  "  I  won't  ask  you  to 
forgive  me,"  he  said  clearly.  "  I  could  not  help  it, 
and  I  am  not  in  the  least  sorry." 


210 


CHAPTER   XI 

Relating  how  Corrie  analyzed  her  own  condition.  —  The  girl  in 
the  phaeton.  —  How  even  love  may  add  to  sadness.  —  Miss 
Maria's  departure.  —  Enter  Miss  Freedlark,  the  Sapphic 
poetess.  —  The  art  and  practice  of  getting  into  print.  —  Miss 
Freedlark's  eagerness  to  exchange  Fame  for  mere  bread  and 
butter.  —  The  letter  from  Phil's  mother. 


moment  passed,  a  long  moment  before  Cor- 
•*•  rie  dared  to  trust  herself  to  speak,  much  less  to 
look  at  him.  The  tide  of  color  surged  into  her  face 
and  paled  away  as  soon,  flashing  intermittently  with 
her  emotions.  "How  dared  you?"  she  asked  in  a 
tense  whisper,  but  even  that  did  not  dismay  him. 

"  I  could  n't  help  it,"  he  repeated  quietly,  "  and 
I  am  not  sorry." 

With  her  head  stiffly  erect,  the  girl  turned  back 
along  the  way  they  had  come.  She  still  maintained 
her  reserve,  her  eyes  filled  with  the  tears  of  regret, 
perhaps  anger,  that  she  allowed  herself  to  be  so  car 
ried  away  in  that  instant  of  revealing  weakness. 
To  surrender  like  that  to  anyone  !  To  reveal  herself 
to  him  even  before  she  was  asked!  She  cried  out  to 
herself  at  the  thought  of  it,  scourged  by  self-dispar 
agement.  Even  the  reminder  that  he  had  been 
equally  guilty  could  not  repress  her  scorn.r  She 
could  have  cried  out  to  him,  as  she  cried  to  herself 
now,  "  I  hate  you  !  "  But  she  did  not. 

211  ' 


CORRIE  WHO? 

Before  long  her  silence  oppressed  him  too.  "  I 
don't  ask  you  to  forgive  me,"  he  said  gently.  "  I 
don't  think  there  is  anything  to  forgive ;  I  could  not 
help  it  if  I  had  tried.  Won't  you  look  up  at  me  ?  " 

Silence.  She  kept  her  eyes  on  the  ground,  unan- 
swering.  They  walked  a  little  further;  then  he 
spoke  suddenly,  as  in  a  flow  of  irritation  at  her 
silence.  "  You  won't  speak  to  me  —  what  shall  I  do, 
then?  Shall  I  tell  you  I'm  sorry  —  that  I  didn't 
mean  it?  Shall  I  tell  you  that?  " 

There  she  looked  up  swiftly,  and  her  eyes  filled 
with  fire,  gleaming  behind  her  tears.  "  If  you 
dared,"  she  cried  passionately,  "  I  'd  never  speak  to 
you  again  —  never,  never  look  at  you !  " 

"  Well,  don't  fear.  I  have  n't  the  slightest  idea  of 
doing  it.  That 's  just  what  I  wished  to  hear  you 
say." 

Poor  Corrie!  Knowing  what  that  passionate 
answer  had  revealed,  she  could  have  bitten  out  her 
tongue  for  saying  it.  "  I  think  you  're  hateful  — 
hateful!  "  she  cried,  her  vehemence  twofold,  once  she 
had  looked  up  and  caught  the  smile  lurking  in  his 
eyes. 

"  Corrie  —  oh,  Corrie !  " 

"  No !  You  shall  not  call  me  that.  I  forbid 
you !  "  She  snatched  away  the  hand  he  tried  to  take ; 
and  then  aware  that  her  anger  and  resentment  were 
still  further  betraying  her  depth  of  feeling,  she 
nerved  herself  into  an  icy  coldness. 

The  sudden  change  utterly  disconcerted  him. 
"  Oh,  please,  won't  you  —  please  now !  "  he  pleaded, 

212 


ENTER  MISS  FREEDLARK 

filled  with  a  boyish  anxiety;  but  Corrie,  once  of 
fended,  was  not  easily  to  be  pleaded  with. 

"  You  must  say  no  more  about  it,"  she  declared, 
her  words  crisply  cold ;  "no  —  not  if  we  are  still  to 
be  friends."  One  would  have  thought  from  her  dig 
nity  that  a  woman  of  middle  age  was  speaking,  not 
this  slip  of  a  girl  who  relied  only  on  a  vague,  inde 
terminate  instinct,  a  kind  of  inherent  tact,  to  lead 
her,  otherwise  unguided,  through  the  difficult  paths 
of  life. 

"  Very  well,  then,"  he  answered,  restrained,  too, 
now  that  he  saw  she  was  genuinely  vexed.  "  I  '11 
remain,  as  you  say,  a  friend.  But  that  will  not  pre 
vent  me  from  being,  sometime  —  some  day  —  more 
than  that.  But  until  this  is  settled,  until  we  've 
found  out  what  you  wish  to  know,  I  '11  be  just  a 
friend,  —  just  the  friend  you  say."  He  smiled  again 
as  he  said  it,  but  there  was  no  smile  on  Corrie's  lips, 
or  in  her  heart  any  desire  to  smile.  "  After  that  — 
well."  He  was  looking  at  her  intently  now.  "  Little 
girl,"  he  added  softly,  "  it  does  n't  make  any  dif 
ference  what  we  find  out.  It  will  be  —  just  the 
same." 

She  heard,  but  gave  no  heed  to  it.  They  had  come 
to  the  drive  again,  the  path  winding  along  beside 
the  lake,  and  at  their  right  the  broad  roadway 
swinging  southward  under  its  arch  of  trees.  At  the 
turn  the  uncouth,  ugly  statue  stood  with  its  back 
turned  as  if  utterly  dejected  now,  and  Corrie,  star 
ing  at  it  dully,  was  just  starting  to  cross  the  road 
way  when  a  smart  clatter  of  hoofs  sounded  on  the  air. 

213 


CORRIE  WHO? 

At  the  crest  of  the  hill  a  phaeton  drawn  by  a 
lively  pair  of  grays  hove  into  view.  Its  broad  dash 
and  varnished  guards  gleamed  in  the  bright  sun 
shine,  and  as  the  trap  bore  on  down  the  slope,  there 
was  a  play  of  sunlight,  too,  on  the  points  of  its 
silver-mounted  harness,  and  a  gleam  of  satiny  coats, 
as  the  matched  pair  forged  along  at  their  work.  A 
girl  drove,  a  young  woman  in  a  jacket  and  sailor 
straw,  and  by  the  way  she  managed  the  lively  grays, 
her  hands  confidently  feeling  the  bits  as  they  leaned 
up  against  the  collars,  one  saw  she  knew  what  she 
was  about,  and  that  the  groom,  who  sat  looking  on 
from  the  rumble,  was  there  for  form's  sake  only. 

Corrie  looked  up  in  interest  as  this  animated  pic 
ture  shot  into  sight.  And  Phil  —  Phil  looked,  too, 
and  then  started  consciously.  The  involuntary 
movement  took  his  hand  toward  his  hat,  and  the 
young  woman,  attracted  by  the  gesture,  turned  to 
see  who  it  was.  Instantly  her  whip  hand  reached 
over  and  gripped  the  lines  as  if  to  pull  up;  and  she 
had  already  recognized  him,  when  she  saw  he  was 
not  alone.  It  was  all  brief,  momentary ;  the  grays 
had  hardly  skipped  a  stride  at  the  touch  of  their 
bits,  when  the  girl  driving  realized  he  was  with  some 
one  she  did  n't  know.  Dropping  her  hand,  she  gave 
the  pair  their  heads  again,  and  the  phaeton  flashed 
by  at  unabated  speed,  the  girl  saluting  with  her 
whip,  her  eyes  filled  with  dancing  merriment. 

"  Why "  exclaimed  Corrie,  and  then  checked 

herself.  In  that  moment's  view  she  had  recognized 
the  girl  as  the  one  she  had  met  on  the  steps  when 

214 


ENTER  MISS  FREEDLARK 

she  rang  Mr.  Biggamore's  bell.  Corrie  looked  at 
Phil;  and  Phil,  frowning  uncomfortably,  was  rue 
fully  staring  after  the  fast  disappearing  phaeton, 
over  whose  folded  hood  the  girl  was  looking  back 
with  a  taunting,  accusing  smile.  Then  the  trap 
swung  out  of  view  around  the  bend,  and  he  drew  in 
his  breath  with  a  sigh. 

"  Well ! "  he  exclaimed,  coming  out  of  his  silence, 
"  it 's  all  up  with  me  now !  " 

He  said  it  cheerfully,  but  with  an  air  as  if  he 
could  expect  neither  mercy  nor  forgiveness. 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  "  Corrie's  tone  was  inno 
cence  itself,  but  beneath  it  lurked  a  little  disquiet. 

"  Nothing  much  —  only  that 's  Virgie  Deane, 
you  know ; "  —  this  as  if  the  fact  were  explic 
itly  self-explaining. 

"  Miss  Deane  does  seem  to  have  upset  you,"  ob 
served  Corrie,  affecting  to  look  across  the  lake  to  its 
most  distant  shore. 

"  So  would  you  be  upset,"  he  laughed,  "  if  you 
only  knew  Virgie.  I  promised  yesterday  I  'd  drive 
with  her  this  morning,  and  just  after  I  telephoned 
you,  I  called  up  her  father's  house  and  left  word  for 
her  I  would  n't  be  able  to  accept.  Worse  than  that : 
I  said  I  found  it  impossible  to  get  to  the  Park  this 
morning.  Now  I  suppose  I  '11  never  hear  the  end 
of  it." 

"  Is  that  the  way  you  always  keep  your  engage 
ments  ?  " 

Phil  looked  at  her  bewildered.  "  Are  you  trying 
to  poke  fun  at  me?  You  're  nearly  as  eager  as 

215 


CORRIE  WHO? 

Virgie  herself.  Besides  this  was  an  important  en 
gagement.  I  j  ust  had  to  see  you,  and  it  could  n't 
be  put  off." 

"Oh,  indeed!" 

"Yes  —  that  was  just  it,"  he  went  on  heedlessly; 
"  and  besides,  I  can  go  driving  with  her  any  day. 
Virgie  is  a  dear  —  she  is,  indeed  —  only  Virgie 
would  rather  have  a  chance  of  rigging  me  than 
to  do  anything  else  she  can  think  of  —  yes,  she 
would!" 

Corrie  felt  again  that  old  pang  of  resentment 
against  the  little  that  life  had  given  to  her.  She 
thought  of  the  girl  who  had  just  driven  by  as  she 
thought  of  others  like  her;  girls  of  Corrie's  own 
age  who  enjoyed  a  good  home  and  a  known  name, 
and  all  the  rest  life  had  to  offer.  Yes!  If  she  had 
owned  a  pair  of  smart  ponies  and  a  phaeton  equally 
smart,  and  if  she  drove  through  the  Park  of  a  morn 
ing  like  that,  perhaps  he,  too,  would  come  with  her. 
And  then  when  the  time  had  arrived  and  he  held  her 
in  his  arms  and  his  lips  hovered  above  hers  ready  to 
claim  the  offering,  she  could  have  given  it  to  him 
without  fear  or  reservation.  For  then  —  well,  then, 
she  would  have  been  a  girl  of  his  own  class,  one  of 
his  own  kind  —  a  girl  with  wealth  and  position  and  a 
name,  and  not  —  not  —  no,  not  poor  little  Cor 
rie,  a  paid  companion,  a  girl  subsisting  on  charity  for 
a  livelihood,  and,  in  her  poor  little  miserable  heart, 
hungering  for  what  was  not  hers  —  the  unattain 
able,  the  unknown  —  hungering  for  even  the  name 
that  was  denied  her. 

216 


ENTER  MISS  FREEDLARK 

His  voice  awoke  her  from  these  sorrowful  reflec 
tions,  and  she  saw  they  had  reached  the  gate. 

"  Shall  I  go  with  you  as  far  as  Mrs.  Pinchin's 
door?  "  he  asked. 

Corrie  said  no;  she  would  leave  him  there.  He 
noted  her  wistful  look,  and  at  once,  with  a  boy's 
self-consciousness,  thought  he  was  still  unforgiven. 

"Can't  we  still  be  friends?"  he  asked  penitently; 
"won't  you  make  up  with  me?" 

"  Yes ;  we  shall  be  friends,"  she  answered,  and 
smiled  at  him.  All  the  gloom  swept  out  of  his  face 
at  her  assurance. 

"  Good-bye,  Corrie.  No,  you  can't  prevent  me !  " 
he  cried,  when  he  saw  her  lips  frame  the  reproof  for 
calling  her  that  again.  "  You  are  always  to  be 
Corrie  —  Corrie  —  no  matter  what  happens.  Good 
bye,  and  don't  forget  to-morrow." 

Corrie  freed  her  hand  from  his.     "  To-morrow?  " 

It  was  his  turn  to  look  at  her  reproachfully  then. 
"  Have  you  forgotten  about  the  album?  You  're 
to  bring  it  down  to  the  house.  Promise  now?  " 

"  Yes  —  I  promise." 

"  Good-bye,  and  don't  forget  —  to-morrow  after 
noon.  I  have  to  hurry  now,  or  Mrs.  Pinchin  will 
demand  an  explanation  from  me,  too."  He  laughed 
as  he  raised  his  hat.  "  Don't  you  know  ?  —  my  day's 
bread  and  butter.  I  'm  still  working  over  her  houses. 
I  can't  throw  up  my  job  just  because  it's  Mrs. 
Pinchin.  Good-bye." 

Long  after  she  had  left  him  he  stood  at  the  cross 
ing  looking  after  her. 

217 


CORRIE  WHO? 

Poor  Corrie  again!  Filled  with  eager  anticipa 
tion,  a  feeling  akin  almost  to  delight,  she  had  gone 
out  to  meet  him,  braving  even  Mrs.  Pinchin's  wrath 
to  carry  out  her  heart's  desire.  But  heart's  desire 
must  be  paid  for,  too,  just  as  all  else  must  be  paid 
for,  even  the  least  of  the  little  that  life  had  given 
poor  Corrie.  To-day,  in  this  case,  she  had  paid 
for  it  by  losing  a  friend  —  the  friend  Tie  could  never 
be  again.  She  had  lost  a  friend,  and  in  losing  him 
had  she  gained  something  else,  something  more  than 
a  friend?  The  color  that  crept  up  into  her  cheeks 

at  the  thought  faded  slowly.  Had  she  gained  a 

Once  more  Corrie  contrasted  herself  with  the  smil 
ing  girl  who  had  flashed  by  them  in  the  Park ;  again 
the  pang  of  envy  and  resentment  stirred  within  the 
depths  of  her  heart.  No  —  why  should  she  even 
dream  of  happiness  like  that?  A  boy's  fancy,  a 
momentary  whim,  the  instant's  impulsiveness,  —  that 
was  all  it  meant.  Numb  and  miserably  in  the  depths, 
she  toiled  slowly  up  the  steps,  knowing  now  she  had 
walked  only  in  a  dream  that  had  brought  its  own 
awakening.  Before  it  went  any  further  —  too  far,  as 
she  said  to  herself  —  she  must  put  an  end  to  it  all. 

As  Corrie  reached  Mrs.  Pinchin's  door  the  deci 
sion  came  to  her.  She  would  see  him  once  more, 
and  only  once.  She  would  tell  him,  and  there  it  all 
should  end.  Afterward,  when  she  had  left  Mrs. 
Pinchin's,  she  would  make  a  life  of  her  own,  and 
try,  in  the  forgetfulness  of  winning  her  way,  to  blot 
out  all  the  dream  had  meant  to  her.  Poor  Corrie! 

It  was  Maggie  who  answered  the  doorbell;  once 
218 


ENTER  MISS  FREEDLARK 

she  saw  who  it  was   that   rang,  her  eyes   widened 
significantly. 

"Ow,  an'  is  it  you,  miss?"  she  exclaimed,  and 
then  added  warningly :  "  Miss  Maria  do  be  askin' 
for  ye,  this  long  time." 

"  Where  is  she?  "  asked  Corrie,  dully,  knowing 
what  was  in  store  for  her,  yet  careless  of  the 
outcome. 

"  Ye  c'n  set  yer  mind  aisy  on  that,  Miss.  She  's 
gone,  and  ye  '11  not  see  her  this  day  again,  I  'm 
thinkin',  for  didn't  she  take  a  trunk  an'  all." 

Corrie  murmured  in  astonishment.  It  was  the 
first  time  in  her  experience  of  the  household  that 
Miss  Maria  had  gone  beyond  the  doors  with  a 
trunk;  for  never  in  that  time  had  Mrs.  Pinchin's 
poor  relation  spent  more  than  a  few  nights  away 
from  her.  But  dulled  by  all  the  happenings  that 
had  crowded  in  together  so  lately,  Corrie  made  no 
effort  to  solve  this  new  bewilderment;  and  shrug 
ging  her  shoulders,  she  began  slowly  to  take  off  her 
hat  and  coat.  Maggie  had  nearly  reached  the  base 
ment  stairs  when  she  awoke  sufficiently  to  think  of 
Mrs.  Pinchin,  wondering  whether  she,  too,  had  gone 
away  on  a  visit. 

"  Did  Mrs.  Pinchin  leave  any  word  for  me?  She 
has  n't  gone  out  for  the  night,  too  ?  " 

"No,  Miss,  an'  she  didn't  lave  a  word,  either. 
Sure,"  said  Maggie,  and  cautiously  lowered  her 
voice,  "  she  went  out  o'  here  as  if  Jt  was  the  plague 
she  left  behind.  There'll  be  some  wan  waiting  in 
the  parloor  for  her  now." 

219 


CORRIE  WHO? 

Corrie  started  up  the  stairs  without  troubling  to 
look  into  the  drawing-room.  Below,  she  could  hear 
Maggie  grumbling  on  her  way  kitchenward,  and  she 
had  almost  reached  the  first  landing,  when  she  heard 
her  name  called. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Corrie,  and  turned  back  curi 
ously. 

At  the  entrance  to  the  drawing-room  stood  Miss 
Freedlark,  the  Sapphic  poetess  of  Mrs.  Pinchin's 
Sunday  evenings.  Corrie  recognized  the  tall,  weedy 
form,  the  figure  now  posing  in  the  doorway  and 
smiling  indulgently,  with  a  simper  that  widened 
her  wide  mouth  like  the  maw  of  a  Jack-o'-lantern. 
Evidently  she  was  in  her  most  condescending 
mood. 

"  I  do  hope  I  don't  disturb  you !  "  she  implored, 
with  a  swanlike  curvetting  of  her  lean  neck,  "  but 
I  so  wish  to  see  Mrs.  Pinchin.  You  know  she  is 
giving  another  of  her  delightful  little  Sunday  even 
ing  functions,  and  I  'm  just  dying  to  learn  all  about 
it  —  yes,  Sunday  evening  at  eight,  as  you  doubtless 
know." 

Corrie  did  n't  know.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the 
news  was  almost  a  revelation;  for  could  it  be  pos 
sible  that  Mrs.  Pinchin,  in  the  midst  of  the  excite 
ment  and  obvious  alarms  that  had  descended  on  her 
home,  should  still  be  determined  enough  to  keep  on 
with  her  formless,  unclassed,  social  endeavors?  It 
seemed  incredible;  and  with  a  new  spark  of  interest, 
Corrie  listened  attentively  to  the  poetess. 

"  Oh,  yes,  indeed !  Mrs.  Pinchin  wrote  me  this 
220 


ENTER  MISS  FREEDLARK 

morning  that  I  was  expected;  and  she  actually 
hinted  of  a  plan  to  establish  her  evenings  on  a 
still  more  elaborate  scale.  But,  there!  Of  course 
you  know  all  about  it,  and  don't  like  to  speak  of 
it  without  her  permission.  Is  that  it  ?  "  Miss  Freed- 
lark  curved  her  neck  and  simpered  anew,  in  the 
most  insinuating  manner.  "  But  then,  you  won't 
mind  telling  me,  since  we  are  such  good  chums  al 
ready.  Besides,  Mrs.  Pinchin  always  is  delighted 
to  let  me  know."  Curvetting  and  smirking  and 
preening  herself  with  genial  self-assurance,  Miss 
Freedlark  drew  a  notebook  out  of  her  reticule,  and 
disposing  herself  in  an  attitude  of  intense  and  al 
luring  attention,  prepared  to  take  copious  notes. 
"  Now  there  will  be  music  —  yes  ?  "  inquired  the 
poetess,  her  pencil  poised  expectantly  over  the 
notebook. 

"  But  I  know  nothing  at  all  about  it ! "  protested 
Corrie,  who  had  been  vainly  trying  to  get  in  a 
word  edgeways  during  Miss  Freedlark's  ecstatic 
assurances.  "  You  '11  have  to  see  Mrs.  Pinchin 
herself." 

Miss  Freedlark  clucked  her  tongue  tragically. 
"  Oh,  dear !  how  provoking !  I  suppose  I  shall  have 
to  wait  then,  and  I  am  so  pressed  for  time !  "  But 
distressing  as  the  circumstance  seemed  to  be,  Miss 
Freedlark  at  once  showed  herself  able  to  treat  it 
philosophically.  Replacing  the  notebook  and  pencil 
in  her  reticule,  she  clasped  her  hands  beneath  her 
chin,  and  leaned  brightly  toward  the  girl. 

"  You  shall  help  the  moments  flit  away,  then ! " 
221 


CORRIE  WHO? 

she  cried  animatedly ;  "  now  sha'  n't  we  have  a  nice, 
cosy  little  chat  together?  " 

Corrie  found  a  place  on  the  sofa,  not  because  she 
was  allured  by  the  prospect  of  a  nice,  cosy  little 
chat,  but  rather  because  of  a  momentary  thought. 
Miss  Freedlark  was  known  to  be  self-supporting; 
perhaps  Miss  Freedlark,  then,  might  be  induced  to 
reveal  the  usual  methods.  "  You  write,  don't  you  ?  " 
inquired  Corrie,  pleasantly,  and  leaned  toward  the 
poetess  attentively. 

Miss  Freedlark's  answering  simper  was  a  mixture 
of  depreciation  and  self -consciousness.  "  Oh,  yes !  " 
she  murmured,  striving  to  appear  off-hand  and 
casual;  though  why  the  admission  that  she  wrote 
should  affect  her  so  consciously,  one  is  unable  to 
say.  At  all  events,  Miss  Freedlark  showed  it  as  her 
class  inevitably  show  it,  making  as  much  of  the  ad 
mission  as  if  she  were  a  lawyer  talking  of  law,  or 
a  millionaire  talking  of  money,  or  a  drummer  who  'd 
sold  a  bill  of  goods,  perhaps,  or  a  coal  dealer  who  'd 
just  got  a  contract  —  some  one  of  that  class  who 
had  done  something  really  important  and  did  n't 
mind  talking  about  it.  "  Oh,  yes ! "  murmured 
Miss  Freedlark,  looking  up  at  the  ceiling,  "  my 
little  verses  sometimes  flutter  ephemerally  into 
print." 

"  I  don't  mean  that  kind  of  writing,"  Corrie 
explained  with  an  innocently  frank  directness ; 
"  you  write  things  you  really  get  paid  for,  don't 
you?" 

Miss  Freedlark's  eyes  fell  suddenly  from  the  ceil- 
.  222 


ENTER  MISS  FREEDLARK 

ing  and  stared  at  Corrie  with  an  altered  and  less 
exalted  expression.  "  Occasion-ally  —  occasionally 
—  not  very  important,  however.  Little  pot  boilers, 
something  here  and  there,  though  of  course  all  that 
one  does  write  does  aid  so  much  toward  grasp  and 
technique."  Rolling  the  phrase  beneath  her  tongue, 
and,  as  if  charged  again  with  good  humor  at  its 
happiness,  Miss  Freedlark  simpered  anew.  "  Grasp 
and  technique  and  the  larger  spirit,"  she  said  unc 
tuously,  and  waved  a  careless  hand. 

Corrie  wondered,  though  she  didn't  say  so,  what 
element  of  grasp  and  technique  entered  into  the 
composition  of  West  Side  Society  notes,  Miss  Freed- 
lark's  most  known  writings. 

"  Every  little  helps,  you  know,"  added  the  poetess, 
grandiloquently. 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  it  does,"  Corrie  answered  re 
flectively.  "  I  wish  I  knew  how  to  write  —  or  to  do 
something  like  that." 

Miss  Freedlark,  charmed  at  having  so  easily  struck 
the  answering  chord,  at  once  launched  into  a  dis 
quisition  on  the  art  of  writing,  and  what  an  easy 
art  it  was  to  acquire,  providing  one  harked  to  the 
instincts  of  the  untrammelled  soul.  "  Of  course, 
situated  as  I  am  and  dependent  entirely  on  my  art, 
I  cannot  devote  myself  always  to  what  I  feel;  but 
some  day,  I  hope,  I  shall  be  free  to  do  that  at  last,  — 
the  inspired  moment  when  I  shall  be  at  liberty  to 
pen  only  the  artistic  and  the  worthy.  But,  of  course, 
now,"  added  Miss  Freedlark,  dropping  into  a  less 
ethereal  key,  "  you  're  not  like  me.  You  don't  have 

223 


CORRIE  WHO? 

to  think  about  board  and  lodging,  when  you  have 
so  good  and  generous  an  employer  —  I  mean,  so 
good  a  patron  and  friend  as  good  Mrs.  Pinchin. 
Ah!  would  that  I,  too,  were  as  fortunate  as  you, 
Miss  Robinson.  I  've  often  heard  her  tell  how  much 
she  has  done  for  you." 

Corrie  stirred  restlessly.  "  Yes,  —  I  've  always 
realized  she  does,"  she  responded  enigmatically. 
"  Sometimes  it  makes  me  wish  I  could  do  some 
thing  for  myself.  Earn  my  living  as  you  do,  for 
instance.  I  think  you  are  very  fortunate." 

It  was  Miss  Freedlark's  evident  intention  to  simper 
again  at  the  vague  suggestion  she  was  envied;  but 
she  had  hardly  disclosed  her  upper  teeth  in  the 
simper,  when'  another  thought  seemed  to  strike  her. 
Her  expression  altered  itself  at  once.  "  Why !  " 
she  cried,  and  bent  forward  eagerly,  "  you  speak 
as  if  you  were  leaving  Mrs.  Pinchin.  Can  it  be 
possible  you  are  leaving  your  good  and  amiable 
friend?  " 

Corrie,  realizing  how  she  had  committed  herself, 
strove  nervously  to  repair  the  mischief.  But  Miss 
Freedlark,  animated  to  a  degree  unusual  even  with 
her,  poured  forth  a  stream  of  exclamations  and 
inquiries,  eager  and  impetuous.  "  Oh  —  ah,  yes !  — 
I  see,  Miss  Robinson!  You  think  of  striking  out 
for  yourself?  How  interesting!  You  long  to  enter 
the  field  of  my  art  —  to  search  for  the  laurels  of 
fame!  You  have  noble  thoughts,  dreams,  inspira 
tions  !  Ah,  how  well  I  know  the  feeling !  You  long 
to  find  —  may  I  not  use  the  expression  ?  —  you  long 

224 


ENTER  MISS  FREEDLARK 

for  your  own  metier.  Naturally,  you  require  a 
broader  field  than  the  narrow  home  life  can  offer, 
and  so  you  are  leaving  Mrs.  Pinchin?  Is  not  that 
it?  "  Miss  Freedlark,  with  an  eagerness  she  now 
made  no  effort  to  conceal,  rustled  along  the  sofa 
toward  Corrie.  "  You  are  giving  up  your  place?  " 
she  demanded,  and  almost  breathlessly  added,  "  What 
day  are  you  going  to  quit?  " 

Then,  as  if  possessed  of  further  enticing  thoughts, 
Miss  Freedlark  licked  her  lips,  and  shot  a  quick 
glance  about  the  room,  —  a  look  that  perhaps  cal 
culated  to  a  nicety  the  material  comforts  that  would 
surround  her,  once  she  was  freed  from  the  struggle 
of  following  the  metier  she  had  just  so  wildly  ex 
tolled  to  the  girl. 

"  Oh,  I  did  n't  mean  that !  I  'm  not  going  to 
leave  —  not  yet,  anyway ! "  cried  Corrie,  now  thor 
oughly  disturbed  since  she  saw  the  other's  inten 
tion  of  immediately  begging  the  place  from  Mrs. 
Pinchin.  "  Oh,  you  must  n't  say  anything  to  her 
about  it !  "  she  cried,  remembering  her  promise  to 
Phil  that  she  would  stay  there  until  she  knew  better 
what  she  must  do.  "  You  won't  tell  her,  will  you?  " 
she  appealed  earnestly. 

Miss  Freedlark's  face  had  lost  its  first  eagerness, 
and  she  leaned  back  against  the  sofa,  her  ardor  a 
good  deal  damped.  "  Oh,  no  —  to  be  sure.  I  shall 
consider  this  as  if  —  yes,  if  I  may  use  the  expres 
sion  —  as  if  entirely  entre  nous."  Rising  from  her 
seat  now,  she  managed  to  assemble  a  smile  on  her 
horselike  features.  "  Well,  I  must  be  going.  I  fear 
15  225 


CORRIE  WHO? 

I  cannot  wait  any  longer.  But  thank  you  for  such 
a  nice  little  chat." 

The  girl,  thoroughly  miserable,  held  out  a  limp 
hand  to  Miss  Freedlark,  and  suffered  her  to  shake 
it  with  equal  inertness.  "  Good-bye,  —  and  thank 
you  so! "  Miss  Freedlark  was  saying  when  a  loud 
peal  of  the  doorbell  interrupted.  She  started 
eagerly.  "  Why,  there  must  be  Mrs.  Pinchin  now. 
Isn't  it  fortunate?" 

Possessed  of  the  same  idea,  Corrie  would  have 
fled  if  she  could.  But  already  Maggie  was  coming 
down  the  hall  from  the  pantry,  wiping  her  hands 
on  her  apron  as  she  scuffled  along,  and  it  was  too 
late  to  retreat. 

But  it  was  not  Mrs.  Pinchin  after  all.  Corrie, 
peering  over  Miss  Freedlark's  shoulder,  saw  in  the 
vestibule  a  plainly  dressed  woman,  obviously  a  ser 
vant,  who  held  a  letter  in  her  hand. 

"Will  there  be  a  Miss  Robinson  living  here?" 

Corrie  recognized  her  instantly;  it  was  the  ser 
vant  who  had  let  her  in  at  Mr.  Biggamore's. 

"  Yes ;  do  you  wish  to  see  me  ?  "  asked  Corrie, 
trying  valiantly  to  hide  her  agitation  from  Miss 
Freedlark's  prying  eye.  Phil  had  written!  She  felt 
the  color  mount  into  her  cheeks,  all  the  more  em 
barrassed  because  she  knew  it  had  been  detected. 

"  Oh,  yes,  Miss.  My  lady  sent  this,  and  would 
you  tell  me  if  there's  an  answer?" 

Her  lady!  Not  Phil,  then,  but  his  mother!  Pain 
fully  conscious  of  Miss  Freedlark's  close  attention, 
she  took  the  note,  and  excusing  herself,  since  Miss 

226 


ENTER  MISS  FREEDLARK 

Freedlark  gave  no  sign  of  departing,  rapidly  tore 
it  open. 

As  she  suspected  —  rather,  as  she  knew,  the  note 
was  from  Mrs.  Geikie.  Turning  her  back,  she  read 
hurriedly,  and  then  crumpled  the  letter  in  her  hand. 
"  Say  that  I  shall  be  there  —  at  four  o'clock,"  she 
murmured  to  the  servant ;  "  that  is  all." 

Miss  Freedlark  pulled  her  veil  down  over  her  bony 
chin.  "  Well,  I  really  must  be  going.  Will  you 
tell  Mrs.  Pinchin  I  am  most  anxious  to  see  her  — 
about  the  Sunday  functions,  you  know. .  Good-bye. 
I  cannot  begin  to  tell  you  how  interesting  our  little 
chat  has  been." 

Corrie  hurried  to  her  room,  relieved  in  mind  that 
she  was  free  at  last.  She  locked  the  door  behind 
her,  and  tossing  her  hat  and  jacket  on  the  bed, 
hastily  smoothed  out  the  sheet  of  note  paper. 

"  Dear  Miss  Robinson,"  she  read  again,  "  after 
your  visit  of  yesterday  morning,  certain  matters 
have  occurred  that  make  it  extremely  imperative  I 
should  see  you.  Can  you  come  here  this  afternoon 
at  four  o'clock?  Had  I  the  privilege  of  Mrs. 
Pinchin's  acquaintance,  I  should  not  have  ventured 
so  far  in  imposing  on  your  good  will,  but  instead, 
would  have  begged  your  permission  to  call  on  you. 
However,  if  you  find  it  inconvenient  to  come  here 
either  this  afternoon,  or  at  a  time  in  the  near  future, 
I  shall  be  most  willing  to  waive  any  consideration 
in  the  matter,  and  with  your  permission  will  hold 
myself  in  readiness  to  visit  you  at  any  time  you 
find  agreeable.  The  importance  of  the  matter  is 

227 


CORRIE  WHO? 

the  only  apology  I  may  offer  for  the  liberty  I  take 
in  asking  this  of  you.     Believe  me, 

"  LAURA  GEIKIE. 
Tuesday,  April  the  third." 

Drawing  up  a  chair  to  the  window,  Corrie  pored 
over  the  writing  again  and  again,  trying  to  read 
what  lay  between  the  lines. 


228 


CHAPTER   XII 

Mrs.  Geikie's  home.  —  Her  regret  for  having  suspected  Corrie. 
—  The  question  of  Mrs.  Pinchin.  —  Corrie  acknowledges 
herself.  —  The  hunt  for  parents  and  a  name.  —  Mrs.  Gei 
kie's  sympathy.  —  The  pictures  on  the  wall.  —  The  recog 
nition.  —  Randolph  Tottabee's  wife.  —  The  tea  table  in 
Mr.  Biggamore's  garden.  —  Mrs.  Pinchin's  magnanimous 
offer  of  an  office  and  a  safe.  —  The  pot  of  damson  yum. 

TT  was  four  o'clock. 

•*•  "  Please,  Miss,"  said  Mrs.  Geikie's  maid,  re 
turning  down  the  stairs,  "  will  you  come  up  to 
her  room?  " 

Corrie  arose  from  her  seat  under  the  portrait  of 
the  youthful  Mr.  Biggamore  and  anxiously  followed 
the  servant.  All  her  efforts  to  read  between  the 
lines  of  the  letter  that  had  brought  her  there  had 
been  as  futile  as  the  first  attempt;  she  was  still 
thoroughly  in  the  dark. 

"  Come  in,"  answered  a  voice,  pleasantly,  and 
Corrie  timidly  entered  the  room. 

Through  the  broad,  low  windows  the  afternoon 
sunlight  poured  brilliantly.  It  was  not  a  large 
room,  by  no  means  one  so  spacious,  for  example, 
as  Mrs.  Pinchin's  ample  boudoir;  and  in  addition 
to  this  there  were  many  other  dissimilarities.  One, 
in  particular,  was  the  absence  of  that  ostentatious, 
aggressive  newness  that  pervaded  Mrs.  Pinchin's 

229 


CORRIE  WHO? 

home,  —  the  wealth  of  varnish  at  its  highest  polish 
that  gave  to  her  surroundings  something  of  the  look 
of  a  furniture  shop.  A  few  pieces  of  mahogany,  all 
of  an  ancestral  age,  stood  about  the  room;  the  rug 
underfoot,  softly  suppressed  in  tone,  would  have 
paled  in  comparison  beside  Mrs.  Pinchin's  flowered, 
florid  Wilton;  and  on  the  quietly  tinted  walls  only 
a  few  drawings  and  photographs  took  the  place  of 
that  extravagance  of  gold  frames,  colored  prints, 
and  the  like,  that  in  Mrs.  Pinchin's  chamber  more 
definitely  suggested  the  ability  to  buy  rather  than 
the  ability  to  choose. 

Mrs.  Geikie  was  seated  at  a  sewing-table  near  the 
window,  and  if  one  required  any  distinction  be 
tween  the  two  women,  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Pinchin 
turned  up  her  nose  at  any  domestic  employment  as 
menial  and  beneath  her  in  itself  seemed  sufficient. 
Mrs.  Geikie  arose  as  the  door  opened,  and  setting 
her  work  aside,  smiled  and  offered  her  hand  to 
Corrie. 

"  You  won't  mind  my  asking  you  up  here,  will 
you?  "  she  asked,  though  with  cordiality  rather  than 
apology  in  the  words.  "  May  I  thank  you,  too,  for 
letting  me  see  you  again  ?  " 

Corrie  nervously  sank  into  the  chair  Mrs.  Geikie 
offered,  and  still  a  little  awkward  and  wondering, 
waited  for  her  to  declare  herself.  Though  she  had 
no  guess  why  she  had  been  asked  there,  she  still 
suspected  with  a  vague  alarm  that  in  some  way  it 
was  connected  with  her  morning's  walk  in  the  Park 
—  with  that  and,  in  other  ways,  with  him.  Yet  when 

230 


THE  POT  OF  DAMSON  JAM 

Mrs.  Geikie  spoke  again,  there  was  no  connection 
between  the  words  and  the  girl's  troubled  thought. 

"I  think,  Miss  Robinson,"  she  said  evenly,  pick 
ing  up  the  lace  on  which  she  was  sewing,  "  I  think 
that  perhaps  I  may  have  seemed  unkind  in  my  at 
titude  yesterday  —  perhaps  unfair.  My  son  told 
me  on  his  return  that  you  felt  deeply  the  suspicion 
my  brother  and  I  must  have  shown,  and  since  then, 
both  he  and  I  have  regretted  it.  You  will  forgive 
us,  won't  you,  and  forget  what  was  really  only  a 
natural  reticence?  " 

A  quick  sense  of  relief  swept  through  Corrie's 
breast;  it  was  to  make  this  gracious  explanation, 
then,  that  Mrs.  Geikie  had  been  moved  to  send  for 
her,  and  not  for  a  more  embarrassing  cause. 

"  Indeed,"  resumed  Mrs.  Geikie,  smiling  pleas 
antly,  "  I  think  we  have  all  been  playing  at  cross 
purposes.  Perhaps  now  we  may  feel  inclined  to 
trust  each  other  more  frankly  —  don't  you  think 
so,  too?  " 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Geikie.  And  if  I  pained  you  yester 
day,  won't  you  forgive  me?  I  know  now  how  dis 
tasteful  it  must  have  been  to  you  —  how  curious  it 
must  have  seemed  that  an  utter  stranger  should  have 
come  to  you  as  I  did." 

"  But  you  are  no  longer  such  a  stranger,  my 
dear,"  gently  insisted  Mrs.  Geikie,  with  another  re 
assuring  smile.  "  I  think  we  may  talk  now  with 
out  any  fear  or  restraint.  My  son  has  repeated  to 
me  a  little  of  what  you  have  told  him,  and  I  need 
hardly  say  we  are  deeply  interested.  Had  we  only 

231 


CORRIE  WHO? 

known  yesterday  why  you  are  so  gravely  and  hon 
estly  concerned  in  learning  the  identity  of  your  — 
of  Mrs.  Pinchin,  there  would  have  been  no  cause 
for  our  alarm.  My  dear,"  she  asked,  a  kindly  en 
couragement  in  her  voice,  "  won't  you  tell  me  about 
it  now?  If  you  will  let  me  know  who  you  think 
Mrs.  Pinchin  is,  and  why  you  think  so,  perhaps  I 
may  be  able  to  help  you." 

Once  more  the  secret  that  Corrie  had  so  resolutely 
guarded  was  to  be  drawn  from  her.  To  tell  it  now 
was  no  easier  than  before  —  perhaps  even  harder. 
She  looked  up,  embarrassed,  her  eyes  suffused  with 
emotion,  and  then  she  saw,  that  even  though  this 
were  his  mother,  she  need  have  no  fear  in  disclosing 
it.  Besides,  could  she  honestly  let  the  suggestion 
stand  that  she  sought  to  probe  into  only  Mrs. 
Pinchin's  identity  ?  "  No ;  that  is  not  it,"  she  fal 
tered  ;  "  it  was  not  only  to  find  out  about  Mrs. 
Pinchin.  It  was  —  "  She  fixed  her  eyes  on  Mrs. 
Geikie's  encouraging,  sympathetic  face,  and  clasped 
her  hands  in  distress.  "  I  am  trying  to  find  out 
about  myself.  Oh!  it  is  so  hard  to  say.  Mrs. 
Geikie,  I  am  trying  to  find  out  who  I  am,  and  — 
who  my  parents  were.  I  don't  even  know  whether 

they  are  living.  I  don't  even  know "  Her  voice 

sank  despairingly  to  a  murmur.  "  I  don't  even 
know  my  own  name." 

Her  voice  broke  at  the  words,  faltering  and  filled 
with  the  trouble  of  such  an  admission;  and  the 
other  leaned  over  and  laid  a  pitying  hand  on 
Corrie's. 


THE  POT  OF  DAMSON  JAM 

"  Yes ;  that  is  what  we  thought.  That  is  one  of 
the  reasons  why  we  sent  for  you." 

They  were  quiet  for  a  moment,  the  gentle  hand 
still  stroking  the  girl's  in  unaffected  sympathy. 
Corrie  brushed  away  her  tears,  and  looking  up, 
smiled  a  little  as  she  spoke. 

"  You  see  why  I  could  n't  tell  you.-  It  was  some 
thing  I  was  ashamed  to  speak  about  to  anyone. 
Nobody  ever  cared,  anyway,  and  there  was  no  one 
who  would  offer  to  help.  I  think  Mrs.  Pinchin 
really  knows  who  I  am;  but  then,  you  see,  when 
ever  I  asked  her  she  grew  furious  at  my  questions. 
Sometimes  I  thought  she  was  frightened,  too. 
When  I  was  a  little  girl,  and  used  to  try  to  find 
out  about  my  mother  and  father  from  her,  she 
locked  me  in  my  room.  So  I  had  to  find  out  for 
myself ;  it  was  the  only  way.  I  did  n't  dare  let 
anyone  know  what  I  was  doing,  for  I  was  afraid  — 
afraid  that  Mrs.  Pinchin  would  hear  of  it,  and  — 
oh,  Mrs.  Geikie  —  afraid  of  the  truth  should  I  learn 
it." 

"Yes  —  I  understand.     Poor  little  child!" 

That  was  what  he  had  said,  too  —  poor  little 
child!  But  the  words  were  uttered  now  with  even 
a  deeper  sense  of  pity  —  a  mother's  knowledge  of 
a  woe  like  hers,  a  mother's  pity  for  a  pitiably  mother 
less  child.  The  comfort  in  that  look  appealed  to 
Corrie  as  no  look  ever  before  had  appealed,  and 
with  a  catch  in  her  breath,  she  smiled  back  grate 
fully.  "  You  seemed  so  sweet  and  kind  when  I  saw 
you,  I  was  almost  tempted  to  tell  you,  and  then 

233 


CORRIE  WHO? 

your  son,  Mr.  Geikie,  came  in,  and  I  couldn't  — 
no,  not  before  him." 

"  Then  he  does  n't  know? "  asked  the  mother, 
softly. 

Corrie  no  longer  felt  a  desire  to  conceal  anything 
from  so  gently  understanding  a  confessor.  "  Yes  — 
he  knows.  I  told  him  everything,  this  morning, 
when  I  met  him  in  the  Park." 

The  hand  still  pressing  hers  quivered  as  if  with 
a  quick,  uncontrolled  answer  to  an  unexpected  pang. 

"  You  and  my  boy  were  in  the  Park?  Yes  —  yes, 
I  see,"  she  murmured,  and  the  tone  was  unchanged, 
still  gentle  and  controlled.  "  You  told  him  all  — 
though  was  it  necessary,  my  dear  child?  " 

Corrie  resolutely  kept  on.  "  I  told  him  because 
I  wished  him  to  know.  I  couldn't  keep  his  friend 
ship  honestly  if  I  did  not  tell  him.  No  —  not  when 
he  is  the  first  friend  I  have  ever  had !  " 

"  Naturally  you  could  not,"  agreed  Mrs.  Geikie, 
after  thoughtfully  looking  at  Corrie.  "  You  felt 
you  could  permit  no  young  man's  attentions  —  is 
that  it? — when  so  much  about  yourself  remains  in 
doubt.  Yes  —  you  are  right." 

For  the  first  time  during  the  interview,  the  gravely 
placid  woman  momentarily  seemed  to  have  lost  in 
terest  in  the  girl's  heartfelt  appeal  to  her.  A  little 
drawn  look  of  pain  settled  about  her  lips ;  there  was 
a  hint  of  sadness  in  her  eyes.  "  Yes ;  —  you  did  right 
with  him! ! "  she  murmured,  and  fell  silent. 

Her  glance  drifted  away  to  the  opposite  wall, 
where  hanging  from  the  picture  molding  was  a  por- 

234 


THE  POT  OF  DAMSON  JAM 

trait  in  an  oval  frame.  The  face  was  of  a  man  per 
haps  forty  years  of  age,  perhaps  younger ;  an  alert, 
firm-eyed  face,  well-bred,  and,  if  not  handsome,  at 
least  pleasant  in  its  smiling  kindliness.  Mrs. 
Geikie's  glance  rested  on  it  for  a  moment,  and  Cor- 
rie's  eyes  unconsciously  following,  she  realized  from 
the  resemblance  between  it  and  Phil's  young  face 
that  this  must  have  been  the  man  who  had  died  so 
shamefully  as  the  result  of  another's  shameful, 
tragic  wrongdoing.  But  beneath  the  portrait  was 
another  picture,  and  her  eyes  lowering  to  it,  Mrs. 
Geikie  arose. 

"  Will  you  come  look  at  this,  Miss  Robinson  ?  " 
she  asked. 

Corrie  saw  it  was  a  group  of  three  young  men 
in  yachting  flannels,  all  of  the  style  of  a  past  gen 
eration.  Moved  by  the  significance  in  Mrs.  Gei 
kie's  tone,  she  pored  intently  at  the  old-fashioned 
print. 

"  This  was  my  husband  —  the  one  in  the  center, 
Miss  Robinson,"  said  Mrs.  Geikie,  pointing  out  the 
figure,  "  and  this  young  man  —  the  one  at  his  right 
—  I  think  you  have  seen  recently."  Mrs.  Geikie 
smiled  as  she  spoke. 

.  "  You  mean  this  one?  Yes,  why,  it  *s  Mr.  Bigga- 
more,  is  n't  it  ?  Mr.  Biggamore,  though  much 
younger !  " 

"  Yes ;  but  have  you  ever  seen  this  man  —  the 
one  here  on  the  left?  Do  you  recall  his  face?  " 

The  recognition  came  abruptly  —  convincing, 
once  the  suggestions  dawned  upon  her;  for  it  was 

235 


CORRIE  WHO? 

the  face  of  the  man  in  the  album  at  home,  a  more 
youthful  likeness  of  the  man  in  that  other  portrait. 

"  Yes,  I  know  him.  It  is  the  one.  I  'm  sure  of 
it!" 

"But  do  you  know  his  name?  —  who  he  was?" 
persisted  Mrs.  Geikie,  still  with  her  finger  pointing 
him  out.  "  Have  n't  you  been  told  who  he  is  ?  " 

Corrie  shook  her  head  frantically.  "  No,  —  I 
don  't  know  that.  I  know  only  he  is  the  man  whose 
picture  is  in  my  album  —  the  man  dressed  in  heavy 
mourning.  There  's  a  little  child  in  his  arms." 

"And  you  don't  know  his  name?"  asked  Mrs. 
Geikie,  with  a  deeper  suggestion  in  the  question  than 
even  before. 

Corrie  despairingly   said,   "  No." 

"That  is  Randolph  Tollabee.  My  dear,  I  think 
you  should  try  to  remember  it." 

Randolph  Tollabee !  —  and  with  the  suggestion 
now  attached  to  the  name,  the  understanding  com 
ing  to  her  by  leaps  and  bounds,  all  the  romantic 
visions  of  her  dreams  whirled  up  before  her,  filling 
her  mind  with  a  flash  of  the  living  truth.  Realiza 
tion  was  face  to  face  with  her.  Randolph  Tollabee! 
—  the  name  had  ever  appealed  to  the  girl  with  a 
subtle  force  and  intensity.  White  and  quivering, 
Corrie  stared  into  Mrs.  Geikie's  face,  her  eyes  pas 
sionately  entreating  the  answer  to  the  question  they 
so  passionately  asked. 

"  Is  it  that  ?  —  what  Phil  meant  ?  —  why  he 
wished  me  to  wait?  " 

The  mother  gave  no  sign  she  had  heard  her  sou's 
236 


THE  POT  OF  DAMSON  JAM 

name  spring  so  readily  to  Corrie's  lips.  She  laid 
her  hand  again  on  Corrie's. 

"  Do  not  raise  your  hopes  too  much,  child.  I 
meant  to  prepare  you,  and  —  perhaps  —  perhaps 
—  no,  we  do  not  know  yet.  You  must  wait  till  we 
make  sure.  I  wished  only  to  let  you  know  what  we 
were  doing.  I  did  not  dream  it  would  be  so  great 
a  shock ! " 

The  girl's  hands  clasped  themselves  together  as 
she  turned  back  to  the  picture,  studying  with  a 
keener,  more  knowing  intentness  now,  the  face  she 
already  knew  so  well.  "  Oh  —  no,  you  must  not  tell 
me  too  much,  Mrs.  Geikie,"  she  cried  in  a  whispered 
emotion ;  "no  —  not  unless  you  are  sure  it  is  trua 
To  know  the  truth  is  all  I  have  asked  —  it  might  be 
happiness  enough.  But  to  know  who  I  am  and  that 
there  is  no  —  that  I  have  a  name  and  a  right  to  the 
name  —  oh,  the  j  oy  of  it,  Mrs.  Geikie !  That  would 
be  above  any  happiness  I  have  ever  had ! " 

Her  eyes  even  now  were  filled  with  the  dream. 
"  Tell  me  about  him.  Tell  me  a  little,  won't  you  — 
and  my  —  you  will  tell  me  whom  he  married  — 
something  about  her,  too?  " 

Mrs.  Geikie  went  back  to  her  chair,  and  slowly 
pondered.  "  There  is  really  very  little  to  tell  —  no, 
not  very  much,  I  think.  You  see,  we  never  really 
knew  the  wife.  It  was  —  well,  how  shall  I  say  it?  — 
why,  it  was  a  very  quiet  match.  Randolph  we  always 
knew,  however.  Late  in  life  his  father  married 
again,  and  so  far  as  the  father's  marriage  is  con 
cerned,  I  can  say  frankly  it  was  curious.  In  fact, 

237 


CORRIE  WHO? 

the  stepmother  —  Randolph  Tollabee's  stepmother, 
you  understand  —  she  was  their  housekeeper ;  a  very 
respectable  woman,  I  have  been  told,  yet  certainly 
not  of  his  own  station  in  life.  She  was  a  widow  with 
a  family  of  her  own  —  children  much  older,  I  be 
lieve,  than  young  Randolph  Tollabee.  At  all  events, 
the  Tollabees  dropped  out  of  sight  after  this  unfor 
tunate  marriage  of  the  father,  and  we  saw  nothing 
of  Randolph  until  he  entered  college.  My  brother 

—  Mr.    Biggamore,   you   know  —  was    in    the   same 
class,  as  well  as  my  husband.     The  three  became  in 
separable  after  that." 

"  But  his  family  —  the  Tollabee  family,  Mrs. 
Geikie?  "  asked  Corrie,  with  a  growing,  uneasy  sus 
picion  of  the  facts,  "  what  became  of  the  step 
mother  and  her  children?  " 

Mrs.  Geikie  thought  deeply  again.  "  They  were 
not  known  to  us.  There  was  the  mother  and  some 

—  some  girls !  "     She  halted,  as  if  debating  irreso 
lutely  the  question  of  what  she  should  say.     Then 
she  seemed  to  make  up  her  mind.     "  Perhaps  I  should 
be  entirely  frank,  my  dear.     One  of  these  sisters  — 
she  was  Miss  Margaret  Tollabee  —  well,  I  have  rea 
son  to  believe  she  is  my  husband's  sister-in-law." 

Mrs.  Geikie,  at  this  admission,  looked  anxiously 
at  Corrie  as  if  to  discover  what  impression  it  made. 
Corrie  nodded,  and  Mrs.  Geikie  looked  a  little  as 
tonished  that  it  created  no  greater  effect. 

"  I  fancy  my  son  must  have  told  you  that,  too, 
my  dear  ?  I  'm  afraid  Phil  is  too  frank  and  open  to 
learn  ever  to  be  reserved." 

238 


THE  POT  OF  DAMSON  JAM 

But  a  moment  later  Mrs.  Geikie  smiled  at  her 
own  vexation.  "  Oh,  well,"  she  sighed,  "  I  suppose 
Phil's  frankness  is  not  to  be  cured.  But  to  return 
to  the  Tollabees " 

"  Yes,"  murmured  Corrie,  still  uneasily ;  "  you 
were  telling  me  what  had  become  of  them." 

"  We  don't  know,"  answered  Mrs.  Geikie.  "  You 
see,  we  were  not  acquainted,  and  though  we  knew 
Randolph  Tollabee  supported  them  after  his  father's 
death,  once  he  was  dead  —  you  understand  I  am 
speaking  of  Randolph  now  —  we  never  heard  of 
them  again  —  not  directly,  at  all  events.  But  let 
me  think  a  moment.  I  started  to  tell  you  about 
Randolph  Tollabee's  own  wife." 

"  I  'd  like  to  know  about  her,"  said  Corrie,  hesi 
tatingly  ;  "  will  you  tell  me  when  she  died  and  where 
it  was?  No  one  has  ever  told  me.'* 

Very  quietly  and  sympathetically  Mrs.  Geikie 
rounded  out  the  little  story  of  Leonie  Giraud,  Ran 
dolph  Tollabee's  dead  young  wife,  the  mother  of  his 
child.  "  She  was  a  young  Frenchwoman  who  had 
been  giving  French  to  one  of  the  Tollabee  girls  — 
I  call  them  the  Tollabees  because  they  took  the  step 
father's  name.  You  may  not  have  heard  —  of  course 
you  really  do  not  know  a  thing  about  him  —  but 
Randolph  Tollabee  was  a  quiet,  absorbed  man  who 
cared  little  for  social  life.  We  hoped  he  would  marry 
someone  we  knew,  a  wife  who  would  bring  him  a 
name  and  a  place  equal  to  his  own;  for  the  Tolla 
bees,  after  all,  came  of  an  old  and  proud  line  in  New 
York.  Leonie  Giraud  was  an  orphan;  her  father, 

239 


CORRIE  WHO? 

who  was  some  sort  of  a  political  refugee,  had  died 
here  penniless,  leaving  her  alone  and  unbefriended. 
Certainly  it  was  not  the  marriage  we  had  anticipated, 
though  she  was  very  beautiful  and  obviously  a  gentle 
woman.  Randolph  Tollabee  married  her  while  we 
were  abroad;  and  then  he  went  traveling,  too;  so 
we  never  saw  her.  Two  years  later  we  heard  from 
him  —  and  oh,  that  was  a  grief-stricken,  heart 
broken  letter  he  wrote.  He  had  lost  her,  my  dear  — 
she  died  when  her  little  girl,  Dorothy,  was  born." 

"  Oh,  —  how  dreadful !  "  cried  Corrie.  shocked. 
"  And  you  never  saw  him  again  ?  " 

Again  a  look  of  pain  came  into  the  quiet  eyes,  as 
if  the  question,  innocently  asked,  had  touched  anew 
the  soreness  of  an  unhealed  sorrow.  "  Let  me  make 
it  clear  to  you,"  said  Mrs.  Geikie,  with  a  quiet  smile. 
"  My  boy  says  he  has  told  you  why  we  never  men 
tion  the  name  of  the  man  who  lives  here  behind  us. 
Certainly  we  have  nothing  to  conceal;  yet  what  is 
to  be  gained  by  speaking  of  it  before  the  world? 
I  shall  tell  you  now,  though,  that  this  man  not  only 
ruined  my  husband  and  wrecked  my  brother's  for 
tune,  but  was  the  cause,  too,  of  estranging  us  from 
Randolph  Tollabee.  Indeed,  Mr.  Tollabee's  own  for 
tune  was  seriously  involved,  and  it  was  because  of 
it  —  it  was  for  that  —  my  husband  —  he " 

*'  Yes,  I  know.  You  must  not  speak  of  it !  "  whis 
pered  Corrie.  "  I  have  heard !  " 

"  But  I  want  you  to  know,"  Mrs.  Geikie  declared 
in  a  strained  voice ;  "  I  wish  everyone  to  know. 
Two  days  before  his  death,  Randolph  Tollabee  wrote 

240 


THE  POT  OF  DAMSON  JAM 

he  had  found  a  package  of  papers  that  cleared  my 
husband  of  the  slightest  blame.  To  him,  to  us  all, 
it  seemed  like  a  gift  Heaven-sent  to  free  us.  My  hus 
band —  he  was  still  living,  trying  to  clear  himself 
by  every  act  in  his  power,  and  to  restore  to  others 
what  they  had  lost  —  my  husband  hurried  away  to 
catch  the  first  train  to  go  to  him.  It  was  an  all- 
night  journey,  for  Randolph  Tollabee  was  in 
Sprucemont,  a  little  Adirondack  village  where  he 
had  gone  to  recover  his  wasted  health.  We  could 
hardly  wait  for  him  to  return,  Mr.  Biggamore  and 
I.  Then  we  got  a  telegram;  my  husband  was  com 
ing  home.  My  dear,  Randolph  Tollabee  had  died 
suddenly  the  day  before,  and  there  was  no  trace  of 
the  papers.  They  were  gone.  We  never  found 
them." 

She  turned  her  head  away  from  the  girl's  young, 
absorbed  face,  and  gazed  thoughtfully  through  the 
window  at  her  side.  "  Child,  grief  we  must  all  suf 
fer  at  some  stage  in  our  lives;  but  pray  you  may 
be  spared  a  sorrow  that  bears  with  it  a  shadow  you 
cannot  lift  —  not  of  death,  for  there  is  a  respect 
and  nobility  in  that  which  helps  to  cure  the  pain; 
but  the  shadow  of  wrong  and  sin  and  evil.  Do  you 
understand  me?  " 

Corrie  had  thought  to  ask  something  more,  but 
she  dared  not  now,  fearful  as  she  was  of  touching 
again  the  scar  of  that  affliction.  It  was  the  question 
about  Mrs.  Pinchin  —  who  she  was,  and  whether 
they  knew  her  now?  But  it  must  wait.  Time  would 
soon  give  her  the  answer,  and  then,  too,  Corrie  had 
16  241 


CORRIE  WHO? 

already  learned  much.  As  she  sat  thinking  of  it, 
there  came  a  knock  at  the  door.  It  was  the  servant. 

"  Please,  ma'am,"  said  the  maid,  "  Miss  Deane 
is  below.  She  'd  like  to  ask  if  she  can  have  tea  with 
you  in  the  garden." 

"  Yes.     I  shall  be  down  directly." 

The  maid  departed,  and  Mrs.  Geikie  slowly  arose. 

"  You  must  come  to-morrow,  my  dear,  and  bring 
your  album.  I  want  you  to  see  Mr.  Biggamore  once 
again,  and  give  him  all  the  information  that  is  pos 
sible.  I  think  we  are  in  a  fair  way  to  clear  up  the 
mystery  —  yes,  I  feel  certain  about  that.  Now,  you 
will  come  down  with  us  and  have  a  cup  of  tea?  " 

Though  Corrie  would  have  preferred  to  get 
quietly  away  to  her  thoughts,  to  escape  seeing  any 
one  now,  and,  more  particularly,  the  girl  whose  ap 
pearance  in  the  Park  that  morning  had  affected 
her  so  strongly,  there  was  no  way  in  which  she  could 
very  well  refuse  the  invitation.  The  thought  of  see 
ing  Phil,  too,  so  soon,  affected  her;  and  as  she  and 
Mrs.  Geikie  went  down  the  stairs  together,  Corrie 
decided  she  must  depart  as  soon  as  she  could,  before 
he  came  in  and  found  her  there. 

But  all  this  decision  was  ordained  to  come  to 
naught.  As  she  and  Mrs.  Geikie  reached  the  French 
windows  leading  out  into  the  veranda,  a  peal  of 
laughter  came  ringing  up  from  the  garden,  a  breeze 
of  merriment  in  which  Miss  Deane's  glee  was  echoed 
by  a  man's  jubilant  tones.  Then,  while  the  girl's 
jollity  still  filled  the  garden,  Corrie  heard  Phil's 
voice  lifted  in  mirthful  remonstrance. 


THE  POT  OF  DAMSON  JAM 

"  Oh,  I  say,  Virgie,  you  'd  better  not  let  Uncle 
Phil  catch  you  doing  that !  " 

"  Nonsense !  "  came  the  retort,  with  another  rip 
ple  of  gleefulness;  "who's  afraid?  I  want  one  all 
for  my  own !  " 

"  All  right  —  go  ahead,  then.  But  he  '11  pull  out 
all  his  front  hair  if  he  catches  you !  " 

Corrie  involuntarily  drew  back  as  another  burst 
of  laughter  rang  in  the  garden.  But  it  was  too  late 
now  to  escape.  Miss  Deane,  with  her  skirt  wrapped 
around  her,  was  poised  in  the  middle  of  Mr.  Bigga- 
more's  flower  beds  deliberately  plucking  the  best 
sprays  of  hyacinth  in  the  plot,  while  Phil,  still  re 
monstrating,  was  tugging  the  ears  of  a  brindle  bull 
terrier  who  growled  hoarsely,  and  playfully  snapped 
at  his  fingers.  Mrs.  Geikie  added  her  voice  to  the 
chorus. 

"  Virgie!  Stop  picking  the  flowers !  Have  n't  you 
been  told?  " 

The  girl  looked  up,  and  though  still  bubbling  with 
merriment,  she  picked  her  way  back  through  the 
flower  beds  to  the  walk.  "  Oh,  Mrs.  Geikie,  please 
don't  tell  on  me,  this  time !  " 

There  was  a  lock  of  hair  astray  on  her  cheek,  and 
her  hat  had  assumed  an  unsafe  angle  during  her 
attack  on  Mr.  Biggamore's  flowers,  yet  her  di- 
shevelment  served  only  to  make  her  more  attractive. 
Rosy  and  animated,  she  turned  up  her  laughing 
face,  trying  very  hard  to  look  contrite  and  rueful, 
though  the  look  was  not  much  of  a  success;  and 
then  her  eyes  fell  on  Corrie. 

243 


CORRIE  WHO? 

"  Come  here,  Virgie,"  said  Mrs.  Geikie,  who  had 
tried  to  scold  her  with  a  look  of  seriousness  that  had 
failed,  too ;  "  I  wish  you  to  speak  to  Miss  Robinson." 

Phil,  who  had  arisen  and  was  trying  to  push  away 
the  exuberant,  jumping  bull  terrier,  swung  around 
with  an  exclamation. 

*'  Why,  when  did  you  come  ?  " 

A  gleaming  light  of  fun  danced  into  the  other 
girl's  eyes.  Phil  detected  it  and  colored  faintly  in 
confusion ;  and  while  Corrie  followed  Mrs.  Geikie 
down  the  steps  to  the  garden,  she  was  conscious  of 
Phil  scowling  at  his  tormentor,  and  of  Miss  Deane 
returning  the  scowl  with  rising  merriment.  Cer 
tainly,  the  knowledge  added  little  to  her  ease,  and 
when  the  other  girl  came  forward,  her  hand  out 
stretched  and  her  lips  parted  in  a  frank  smile  of 
friendliness,  Corrie,  all  the  more  conscious,  tried 
vainly  to  hold  'back  the  color  she  knew  had  flooded 
into  her  cheeks. 

Moreover,  her  confusion  seemed  shared  by  Phil, 
a  fact  that  Miss  Deane  slyly  acknowledged  with 
another  demure  gleam.  "  It 's  very  nice  to  meet 
you !  "  exclaimed  Miss  Deane,  energetically  gripping 
Corrie's  fingers ;  "  now  we  can  have  a  real  tea  party 
—  all  four  of  us  together !  Phil !  stop  trying  to 
push  me  away !  " 

"  I  'm  only  trying  to  welcome  Miss  Robinson,  if 
you  '11  give  me  a  chance,  you  know.  Will  you  call 
off  your  dog,  too,  Virgie?  Go  'way  from  here,  you 
brute.  How  can  I  do  anything  when  he  's  worrying 
my  heels  ?  " 

244 


THE  POT  OF  DAMSON  JAM 

Miss  Deane  mocked  him  with  another  gleam,  and 
called  to  the  terrier.  "  Come  here,  Cave  Canem ;  he 
sha'  n't  talk  to  you  like  that.  You  can  see,  Miss 
Robinson,  what  a  dreadful  disposition  he  has  —  I 
mean  Phil ;  —  not  poor  Cavie." 

There  was  something  so  unaffectedly  cordial  in 
Miss  Deane's  heartiness  that  Corrie  felt  herself  re 
assured.  Furthermore,  the  arrival  of  the  tea  table 
at  this  juncture  gave  her  a  chance  to  compose 
herself. 

"  Phil !  "  cried  his  mother  from  the  other  side  of 
the  garden,  "  you  and  Virgie  stop  your  quarreling, 
and  you  come  here  and  light  the  lamp  for  me.  You 
have  n't  told  me  yet  what  you  've  been  doing  all 
day." 

Phil,  who  had  stopped  exchanging  words  with 
Miss  Deane  to  devote  himself  to  Corrie,  turned 
around  with  sudden  interest. 

"Oh!  I'd  forgotten  to  tell.  What  do  you 
think?  —  I  have  a  new  job  offered  to  me!  " 

"A  job!"  mimicked  Miss  Deane,  with  unextin- 
guished  raillery ;  "  that  sounds  as  if  you  were 
really  going  to  work.  Is  it  honest,  worthy  toil, 
may  I  ask  —  the  kind  that  requires  a  tin  dinner- 
bucket?  " 

Phil  frowned  at  her  again.  "  You  '11  be  a  great 
comfort  to  some  one  when  you  grow  up,  Virgie. 
Now  please  be  seen  and  not  heard.  I  was  about  to 
say  I  'd  been  offered  a  new  position  —  can  you  guess 
by  whom?  "  He  looked  at  his  mother  and  then  at 
Corrie,  his  eyes  twinkling,  when  they  shook  their 

245 


CORRIE  WHO? 

heads.  "  No,  —  you  'd  better  give  it  up !  "  he 
cried,  enj  oying  their  bewilderment ,  "  for  it  was  of 
fered  to  me  by  —  by  —  Mrs.  Pinchin !  " 

"  Philip !  —  is  that  true?  " 

"  The  Gospel  truth,  mother  dear.'* 

Miss  Deane  joined  in  again.  "Mrs.  Pinchin!  I 
thought  you  were  going  to  tell  her  to  take  back 
her  old  houses ! "  she  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  that 
showed  she,  too,  must  know  something  about  the 
situation. 

Phil  darted  a  swift  look  at  Corrie,  and  then  an 
swered  Miss  Deane.  "  I  am,  Virgie,  all  in  time.  I 
can't  throw  up  the  work,  though,  right  in  the  middle. 
I  have  to  carry  out  the  contract,  no  matter  what 
faces  I  make  over  it." 

"  Phil,"  interposed  his  mother,  gravely,  "  I  wish 
to  hear  what  Mrs.  Pinchin  offered  you.  Give  Miss 
Robinson  and  Virgie  their  cups,  and  then  tell  me. 
Cream  and  sugar,  my  dear?  " 

"  Yes,  please,"  answered  Corrie ;  "  one  lump  and 
very  little  cream." 

"  Two  lumps  and  lots  of  cream  for  me,  Mrs. 
Geikie,"  begged  Miss  Deane ;  "  and  may  I  please 
have  a  lump  for  Cavie?  He  adores  sugar." 

Phil  handed  the  tea  to  the  two  girls,  and  then 
offered  them  their  choice  of  toasted  biscuit,  bread 
and  butter,  and  cake. 

c  "  Going  up !  "  murmured  Miss  Deane  in  a  rising 
voice,  as  he  stood  before  her  with  the  curate  and  its 
three  tiers  of  dainties.  "  I  want  the  cake  floor, 
please,  elevator  man." 

246 


THE  POT  OF  DAMSON  JAM 

"  Virgie !  be  still ! "  commanded  Mrs.  Geikie. 
"  Now,  Philip,  tell  me  what  I  wish  to  know." 

Phil  sat  down  and  balanced  his  cup  of  tea  on  his 
lap.  "  Why,  I  was  giving  the  plumbing  contractor 
what-for  over  some  work  he  'd  done  when  I  heard 
some  one  pounding  up  the  stairs.  It  was  Mrs. 
Pinchin,  looking  pretty  fagged  and  worn  out,  as  if 
the  stairs  had  been  the  last  straw.  She  had  n't  been 
around  for  two  days  —  rather  curious,  too,  because 
she  'd  never  missed  a  day  before.  I  hardly  ever 
failed  to  find  her  there,  or,  if  she  wasn't  there  when 
I  arrived,  she  came  in  later  and  insisted  on  following 
me  around,  poking  into  corners  with  her  stick  and 
blowing  up  the  workmen  and  complaining  they  'd 
ruin  her  with  their  shiftlessness.  Then,  between  rows, 
she  'd  try  to  make  herself  agreeable,  asking  me  about 
my  business,  and  if  I  was  doing  well,  and  inquiring 
about  my  family  connections,  and  whether  a  young 
man  did  n't  require  a  lot  of  ready  money  to  set  up 
for  himself.  Why " 

"  Phil !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Geikie,  staring  at  him, 
"  you  never  told  us  about  this !  " 

"  I  know  I  did  n't,  mother.  What  was  the  use.  I 
thought  she  was  just  a  vulgarly  inquisitive  old  per 
son  who  did  n't  know  any  better.  To-day  I  had  a 
better  reason  than  ever  to  dodge  her,  but  I  did  n't 
get  a  chance.  '  Hullo !  —  you  here  ?  '  she  growled 
gruffly,  and  came  hopping  down  the  hall  with  her 
stick.  By  and  by,  after  she  'd  taken  a  hand,  too,  in 
dusting  off  the  plumber,  she  began  to  grumble  again 
that  she  was  being  ruined,  and  that  unless  she  got 

247 


CORRIE  WHO? 

some  one  honest  to  take  care  of  her  houses,  she  'd 
have  to  go  into  bankruptcy.  Before  long  I  could 
see  she  was  leading  up  to  something;  then  she 
plumped  right  out  with  it. 

"  '  Young  man,  you  take  charge  of  my  real  estate. 
You  won't  regret  it.  I  '11  give  you  an  office  of  your 
own  —  not  the  garret  where  you  work  now,  but  a 
real  office.'  " 

"  Fancy  calling  Phil's  upstairs  room  a  garret ! " 
murmured  Mrs.  Geikie,  blankly. 

"  Yes,"  her  son  continued,  "  she  said  she  'd  give 
me  an  office  and  pay  me  a  good,  round  sum  into  the 
bargain.  That  was  her  expression  —  a  good  round 
sum.  She  named  the  amount,  too,  and  it  nearly  took 
my  breath  away.  When  I  shook  my  head,  she  wrung 
her  thick,  black  eyebrows  into  a  scowl,  and  came 
hopping  up  close  in  front  of  me,  peering  into  my  face. 
'Ain't  it  enough?'  she  demanded,  and  began  work 
ing  her  j  aws  as  if  she  were  swallowing  hard.  '  How 
much  do  you  want,  then?  Come!'  she  grunted,  and 
then  tried  to  wheedle  me  into  accepting.  *  I  '11  give 
you  a  big  office,  a  nice,  big,  sunny  place.  You  can 
bring  all  your  papers  there  —  all  your  papers  and 
things  like  that,  and  I  '11  give  you  a  safe  to  put  'em 
in.  A  nice,  big  safe  —  big  enough  for  all  you  and 
your  family.  When  you  go  away,  they  '11  all  be 
secure ;  —  no  one  can  get  at  them.  Why,  I  've  got 
a  good,  big  safe  already  picked  out  for  you.  Come; 
is  it  a  bargain?  A  good,  big  office,  I  'm  telling  you. 
If  you  want  anyone  else  to  be  in  with  you,  why 
you  can  have  them.  I  don't  mind.  You  've  got  a 

248 


THE  POT  OF  DAMSON  JAM 

friend,  maybe,  or  a  relative  —  did  n't  you  say  you 
had  an  uncle  ?  Well,  I  don't  mind ;  —  have  whoever 
you  want.  Do  you  accept  ?  '  " 

"  I  told  her  I  'd  have  to  make  up  my  mind.  '  To 
be  frank,'  I  said  to  her,  '  I  don't  think  I  will  accept 
it.  Still,  I  '11  think  of  it.'  For  a  moment,  I  thought 
she  was  going  to  persist,  but  she  only  looked  at  me 
sourly,  and  went  stamping  down  the  stairs.  '  Hunh ! 
You  don't  want  it ! '  she  growled,  and  then  to  my 
astonishment  added,  '  Well,  I  did  n't  suppose  you 
would.'  It  was  exactly  as  if  she  had  only  worked 
herself  up  into  asking  me,  and  really  did  n't  care. 
Just  as  if  she  had  been  put  up  to  asking  me,  and 
never  had  felt  any  faith  in  what  she  was  doing." 

Corrie  listened  absorbed.  It  was  another  coil  in 
the  mystery,  —  something  crafty  and  planned  for  a 
purpose,  she  had  no  doubt,  but  what  the  purpose 
was,  only  Mrs.  Pinchin  might  tell. 

Mrs.  Geikie,  with  her  chin  in  her  hand,  sat  for 
ward  listening  closely.  "  As  if  she  had  been  put  up 
to  it?"  she  repeated  thoughtfully;  "yes,  I  think  I 
know  now,  too,  who  put  her  up  to  it."  Then,  in 
voluntarily,  she  looked  up  at  the  closed,  secretively 
shuttered  windows  of  the  house  behind. 

"  Well,  that 's  all  I  have  to  tell,"  said  Phil,  aris 
ing.  "  Excuse  me  a  moment,  will  you?  " 

Glancing  at  Corrie  with  a  subtle  smile,  he  entered 
the  house  through  the  lower  door,  just  as  the  maid 
emerged. 

"  Please,  Mrs.  Geikie,"  said  the  servant ;  "  Miss 
Deane's  carriage  is  at  the  door." 

249 


CORRIE  WHO? 

Miss  Deane  arose  hastily.  "  Mercy !  —  I  must  be 
going.  Mother  will  think  I  'm  lost."  She  held  out 
her  hand  to  Corrie,  who  had  risen  too,  and  then,  as 
a  thought  struck  her,  she  smiled  brightly.  "  You 
are  going  uptown,  aren't  you?  Won't  you  let  me 
take  you  home?  " 

Corrie  tried  to  escape  what  she  thought  would  be 
only  a  bother  to  the  girl.  But  Miss  Deane  read  the 
objection  before  it  was  spoken.  "  Oh,  please  let 
me.  I  'd  dearly  love  to !  " 

It  was  a  simple  thing,  kindly  done,  cordial  and 
unaffected.  Mrs.  Geikie  smiled  and  nodded,  evi 
dently  glad  of  it,  and  wishing  Corrie  to  accept  the 
well-meant  kindness. 

"  If  you  're  sure  it  would  n't  be  a  bother,"  she  fal 
tered  uncertainly.  "  But  you  must  n't  take  me  all 
the  way.  It 's  so  far  from  your  own  home,  is  n't  it  ? 
Can't  I  get  out  at  the  Park?  " 

"Oh,  no,  indeed.  Where's  Phil  now?  Phil!" 
she  called,  "  we  're  going." 

"  Coming  as  fast  as  I  can !  "  He  emerged  from 
the  lower  door,  hastily  cramming  a  parcel  into  his 
coat  pocket  as  he  joined  them. 

"  Good-bye,  Mrs.  Geikie !  "  cried  the  girl,  blowing 
her  a  kiss  as  she  ran  lightly  up  the  steps  to  the 
veranda ;  "  I  may  come  in  again  to-morrow." 

She  disappeared  through  the  tall,  French  windows 
with  a  last  wave  of  her  hand,  Cave  Canem  gamboling 
at  her  heels.  Corrie  held  out  her  hand  to  Mrs. 
Geikie. 

"  Good-bye,  too.  I  shall  bring  the  album  to- 
250 


THE  POT  OF  DAMSON  JAM 

morrow  morning.  Good-bye.  You  are  very  kind 
and  sweet  to  me." 

During  that  brief  half  hour  in  the  garden  the 
girl  had  been  very  quiet  and  absorbed,  thoughtfully 
repressed  as  if  she  realized  with  a  new  distinctness 
the  difference  between  her  own  self  and  that  other 
girl  —  a  young  life  buoyant  and  spirited,  filled  with 
the  wholesome  cheerfulness  that  no  sorrow  had  yet 
impaired.  How  she  longed  to  be  like  her  —  longed 
to  possess  the  other's  happiness,  her  name  and  her 
place  —  most  of  all,  that  innocent  happiness. 

"  My  dear,  good-bye.  I  think  it  is  all  coming  out 
right  —  I  think  so.  But  do  not  let  your  dreams  be 
come  too  strong.  You  must  prepare  against  dis 
appointment,  and  what  disappointment  might  bring. 
Good-bye,  now,"  she  murmured,  as  she  left  Corrie  at 
the  door. 

The  voice  was  just  as  gentle,  the  manner  just  as 
kind;  yet  if  in  reality  Mrs.  Geikie  had  closed  the 
door  with  her  son  on  the  inside,  and  poor  Corrie 
left  standing  alone  outside,  the  girl  could  not  have 
more  clearly  realized  the  gulf  that  would  lie  between 
them  until  her  name  and  her  parentage  —  good  par 
entage,  too  —  were  established. 

At  the  curb  the  brougham  waited.  A  footman 
held  open  the  door,  looking  on  with  a  grin  while 
Phil  and  Miss  Deane  struggled  to  bundle  the  re 
luctant  Cave  Canem  inside.  From  the  box  a  stony- 
faced  coachman  ignored  the  byplay  with  British 
stolidity. 

"  In  there,  you  clown ! "  urged  Phil,  and  with  a 
251 


CORRIE  WHO? 

final  effort  lifted  the  struggling  dog  inside ;  "  now 
stay  there ! " 

"  He  's  just  seen  a  cat,"  explained  Miss  Deane, 
succinctly ;  "  will  you  get  in  while  I  hold  him?  " 

Corrie  climbed  in  over  the  writhing  dog;  Miss 
Deane  followed,  and  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief  when 
the  door  was  banged  to.  "  Good-bye,  Phil !  I  hope 
to  see  you  soon  doing  worthy  toil  in  a  perfectly 
worthy  pair  of  overalls." 

"Where  to,  Miss  Deane?"  asked  the  footman. 

His  mistress  had  just  told  him,  the  footman  was 
springing  to  the  box,  when  Phil,  who  had  turned 
away,  cried  out  to  them  to  stop. 

"  Hi !  wait  a  moment !  I  've  forgotten  some 
thing!" 

Tugging  at  his  coat  pocket,  he  came  running  up 
to  the  carriage  window,  and  gravely  handed  Corrie  a 
parcel  bound  in  wrapping-paper.  "  Don't  let  Virgie 
get  her  hands  on  it !  "  he  warned,  and,  with  a  laugh, 
ran  back  to  the  house. 

"  Well,  I  like  that !  "  exclaimed  Miss  Deane,  in 
dignantly,  and  instantly  starting  forward,  leaned 
from  the  window  as  if  to  scream  back  a  withering 
retort.  But  Phil  had  disappeared,  so  Miss  Deane 
had  to  content  herself  with  a  sniff.  "  Perhaps  it 's 
an  infernal  machine,"  she  suggested,  eyeing  the 
package  disdainfully,  though  with  evident  curiosity. 
"  One  might  have  thought  so  from  the  way  he 
spoke ! " 

Corrie,  whose  curiosity  was  not  less  than  hers, 
said  the  best  way  to  find  out  was  to  look.  So,  a  little 

252 


THE  POT  OF  DAMSON  JAM 

embarrassed  and  conscious,  she  slowly  unwrapped 
the  folds  of  paper,  one  by  one,  a  matter  somewhat 
difficult  since  the  other  girl  insisted  on  helping  and 
peeping,  too.  But  when  the  object  was  revealed, 
Miss  Deane  gave  it  a  single  look,  gasped,  and  then 
burst  into  a  gale  of  merriment. 

"Oh!  what  a  lark!  I'll  never  let  Phil  Geikie 
hear  the  end  of  this!  " 

But  poor  Corrie,  ready  to  do  anything  but  laugh, 
sat  and  stared  at  the  present  in  her  hand. 

It  was  a  pot  of  damson  jam! 


253 


CHAPTER   XIII 

In  which  Miss  Freedlark,  the  poetess,  is  descried  in  the  role  of 
Sister  Anne.  —  Her  vulgar,  prying  curiosity.  —  Carrie's 
reflections  and  their  result.  — Mrs.  Pinchin  a  thief? —  The 
bandbox  and  Mrs.  Pinchin's  agitation. —  Miss  Freedlark's 
curiosity  obtains  its  just  deserts.  —  The  family  dinner  and 
what  happened  thereat.  —  Miss  Freedlark's  dissertation  on 
High  Life,  and  the  falling  of  the  second  thunderbolt.  —  Mrs. 
Pinchin's  departure  in  the  rain.  —  The  midnight  prowler 
and  the  sobbing  on  the  stairs. 

DUSK  had  come  crowding  swiftly  on  the  heels  of 
the  waning  day,  when  a  hand  cautiously  parted 
the  curtains  of  Mrs.  Pinchin's  drawing-room  window 
far  enough  to  disclose  the  bony,  knowing  visage  of 
Miss  Mina  Freedlark,  the  poetess.  Flattening  her 
face  against  the  glass,  and  with  an  intentness  compar 
able  to  the  fabled  anxiety  of  Sister  Anne  on  her  tower, 
Miss  Freedlark  closely  reconnoitered  the  sidewalks  in 
one  direction,  and  then  turned  around  and  as  closely 
reconnoitered  them  in  the  other.  This  alert  lookout 
continued  for  some  minutes,  her  absorbed  interest  in 
creasing  rather  than  abating  as  the  time  pro 
gressed;  and  whatever  the  nature  of  her  enterprise 
or  what  the  cause  of  her  vigilance,  she  was  still 
anxiously  straining  her  eyesight  when  a  brougham 
turned  the  corner. 

To  be  explicit,  the  brougham  was  Miss  Deane's, 
which  was   bearing  Corrie  to  Mrs.   Pinchin's   door. 

254 


THE  SOBBING  ON  THE  STAIRS 

Inside,  the  two  girls  sat  talking  together  amiably, 
Corrie  edging  in  a  word  now  and  then  to  spur  the 
other  on  in  her  whimsical,  amusing  chatter ;  and  how 
happy  the  drive  had  been  and  how  short,  she  realized 
when  she  looked  up  to  see  regretfully  they  were 
turning  into  Mrs.  Pinchin's  street. 

"  Why !  "  she  exclaimed ;  "  we  're  at  Mrs.  Pinchin's 
already." 

"Mercy!  do  you  live  there?  I  didn't  know 
that!  " 

Corrie  colored  faintly,  as  she  frankly  turned  to 
the  girl.  "  I  am  Mrs.  Pinchin's  companion,  Miss 
Deane." 

"  Her  companion !  Oh !  what  a  lark !  —  and  you 
live  with  her? "  Miss  Deane's  exclamation  ended 
suddenly  in  a  peal  of  merriment;  as  suddenly  she 
reached  out  her  hand  and  patted  Corrie's. 

"  Oh  —  I  did  n't  mean  to  be  rude.  I  was  thinking 
about  Mrs.  Pinchin.  You  really  live  with  her?  " 

"  Yes ;   did  n't  you  know  it?  " 

"  No ;  mercy,  no !  Phil  told  me  only  Mrs.  Pinchin 
was  up  to  something  queer,  —  she  and  that  dreadful 
uncle  of  his.  But  does  n't  she  suspect  you  and  Phil 
are  —  I  mean,  has  n't  she  found  out  about  you  two 
being  —  Gracious  !  you  know  what  I  mean !  "  ex 
claimed  Miss  Deane,  confusedly,  and  then  bubbled 
over  with  merriment  again. 

"  No,  she  has  n't  found  out  we  're  friends.  Good 
bye;  and  thank  you  very  much  for  bringing  me 
home." 

"  Oh,  don't  thank  me  for  that.  You  don't  know 
255 


CORRIE  WHO? 

what  a  lot  of  fun  I  've  had.  Look ! "  cried  Miss 
Deane,  suddenly  grasping  Corrie  by  the  arm,  "  is 
that  the  old  bear?  Is  that  Mrs.  Pinchin?  My! 
She  's  staring  at  us  like  a  fish  in  a  glass  tank !  " 

Not  a  discreetly  elegant  remark,  though  precise. 
It  was  Miss  Freedlark  at  the  window,  still  in  the 
posture  of  Sister  Anne. 

At  the  brougham's  approach  the  alert  female, 
with  an  eye  trained  specifically  to  the  externals  of 
wealth  and  smartness,  had  fixed  herself  in  a  favorable 
position  to  spy  out  the  occupants  when  it  passed. 
But  the  brougham,  instead  of  continuing  down  the 
street,  as  she  had  anticipated,  drew  in  toward  the 
curb,  and,  with  a  clatter  of  hoofs  and  a  minor 
jingling  of  curbchains,  to  Miss  Freedlark's  broad 
and  unconcealed  amazement,  came  to  a  halt  in  front 
of  Mrs.  Pinchin's,  and  let  out  only  that  lady's  paid 
companion.  It  was  the  watcher,  with  her  mouth  open 
in  astonishment,  that  suggested  to  Miss  Deane  her 
apt,  if  inelegant,  comparison. 

Miss  Freedlark  writhed  hastily  out  of  view.  Her 
first  thought,  of  course,  was  that  this  was  someone  to 
whom  Corrie  had  applied  for  a  position  —  perhaps 
someone  who  had  already  engaged  her,  for  there  was 
no  reason  to  believe  that  a  paid  companion  could 
boast  a  friend  as  smart  and  well-to-do  as  Miss  Freed 
lark's  discriminating  eye  had  instantly  seen  Miss 
Deane  to  be,  from  the  smartness  of  the  brougham 
and  the  footman  at  its  door.  Yes !  she  had  found 
another  place  —  was  that  not  it?  But  this  pleasing 
reflection  had  no  sooner  entered  Miss  Freedlark's 

256 


THE  SOBBING  ON  THE  STAIRS 

mind  than  it  was  doomed  to  wither  pitiably.  For 
while  she  lurked  behind  the  curtains,  she  saw  Miss 
Deane  lean  from  the  carriage  and  wave  a  gay  good 
bye  to  Corrie. 

"  Don't  forget  —  Tuesday  —  at  four.  Phil 's 
coming,  too ! "  she  cried,  and  Miss  Freedlark  could 
not  very  well  miss  hearing  her,  since  Miss  Deane 
shrilled  it  with  buoyant  animation. 

Miss  Freedlark,  quite  beside  herself  with  curiosity, 
opened  the  front  door  for  Corrie.  "  Why,  here  you 
are  at  last !  I  've  been  watching,  I  should  say  wait 
ing  for  you,  just  ages.  You  've  been  taking  a  car 
riage  ride,  haven't  you?" 

Corrie  saw  with  some  degree  of  curiosity,  too, 
that  Miss  Freedlark  had  doffed  her  hat  and  jacket, 
and  apparently  was  very  much  at  home. 

"  I  have  been  driving  —  yes !  "  she  answered. 
"  Has  Mrs.  Pinchin  come  in  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes ;  ages  ago.  But  she  's  gone  out  again. 
You  're  not  to  go  out  until  she  's  seen  you.  Now  you 
have  n't  told  me  yet  who  your  swell  friend  is.  Just 
think  of  you  riding  in  such  an  elegant  turnout !  " 

As  Corrie  drew  off  her  gloves,  she  turned  and  laid 
first  one  and  then  the  other  on  the  hall  table,  trying 
quietly  to  evade  the  woman's  vulgar  prying.  "  Are 
you  staying  to  dinner?  "  she  asked,  looking  up  at 
Miss  Freedlark  when  she  had  straightened  out  her 
gloves. 

"  Oh,  yes.  Mrs.  Pinchin  has  asked  me  to  visit  her 
a  day  or  so  —  maybe  longer.  Isn't  it  nice?  I'm 
sure  we  '11  get  to  be  great  friends,  won't  we?  Now 
17  257 


tell  me  all  about  your  drive  with  that  lovely  girl. 
Seems  to  me  I  've  met  her,  though  I  just  can't  place 
her  now." 

"  Possibly ;  I  can't  say.  Did  Mrs.  Pinchin  say 
when  she  would  return?  " 

Corrie  felt  no  possible  interest  in  the  moment  when 
Mrs.  Pinchin  might  return.  But  anything  to  dodge 
such  persistent  curiosity.  "  Will  she  be  out  late, 
Miss  Freedlark?  "  she  inquired  with  a  forced  concern. 

The  curiosity  that  still  stirred  the  woman  to  the 
depths  of  her  inquisitive  nature  was  too  potent,  how 
ever,  to  be  turned  aside  by  such  a  simple  artifice  as 
this. 

"  Hey  ?  Oh,  she  '11  be  in  by  and  by.  But  you  're 
not  going  to  run  away,  are  you  ?  "  she  asked  in  slight 
astonishment,  when  Corrie  had  picked  up  her  gloves 
and  was  wandering  slowly  toward  the  stairs.  "  Why, 
you  have  n't  told  me  yet  all  about  your  lovely  carriage 
ride.  Now,  come;  she's  real  fashionable,  isn't  she? 
Don't  you  try  to  say  she  is  n't ! "  Miss  Freedlark 
wagged  a  bony  finger  at  Corrie,  and  frowned  play 
fully.  "  Say,"  she  questioned  confidentially,  with  a 
reviving  spark  of  hope,  "  you  're  not  going  to  live 
with  her,  are  you  ?  A  little  bird  tells  me  you  've  got 
a  new  place." 

Biting  her  lip  vexatiously,  Corrie  went  on  up  the 
stairs  without  troubling  herself  to  answer. 

In  her  room,  Corrie  dropped  her  things  on  a 
chair  and  sank  on  the  edge  of  her  bed.  Once  more 
she  felt  the  reaction  from  the  day's  trying  excite 
ments,  and  twining  her  hands  together,  she  sighed 

258 


THE  SOBBING  ON  THE  STAIRS 

with  a  deep  inspiration,  as  if  to  free  her  breast  from 
its  weight.  Until  now  she  had  not  stopped  to  reflect 
on  the  probable  or  possible  consequences  of  the  many 
disclosures  —  what  they  meant  or  where  they  led. 
What  was  in  store  for  her  ?  —  what,  when  the  climax 
of  these  revelations  came?  The  thought  quickened  in 
her  mind,  bearing  its  vision  of  Mrs.  Pinchin  facing 
the  denouement  —  cold !  tragic  !  passionate !  —  en 
raged,  no  doubt;  or  defiant  and  majestic,  fighting 
to  the  last  the  assault  on  her  security.  For,  indeed, 
what  would  Mrs.  Pinchin  do  when  she  learned?  A 
little  chill  of  fear  swept  through  Corrie's  heart  at  the 
thought  of  it,  —  a  creeping  terror  bred  to  her  long 
association  with  the  grim,  unlovely,  dark,  and  mas 
terful  woman,  unloving  and  loveless,  the  incarnation 
of  a  greed  that  would  tread  underfoot  whoever  stood 
between  her  and  her  implacable  self-indulgence. 

But  if  Corrie  were  the  Tollabee  child,  where  was 
the  Tollabee  fortune?  Where  were  the  Tollabee 
lands?  Where  the  Tollabee  estate?  The  thought, 
bred  blindly,  avalanched  itself  on  the  girl's  mind  with 
all  its  dire  significance.  Mrs.  Pinchin  a  thief !  a  per 
jurer!  the  embezzler  of  a  dead  man's  goods  and  chat 
tels  !  The  sudden  creeping  terror  in  Corrie's  heart 
grew  to  a  ghastly  coldness  now.  Pale  and  fright 
ened,  she  gasped,  her  hand  flying  affrightedly  to  her 
lips.  All  the  repugnance  and  dread  she  had  ever  felt 
for  the  woman  arose  now,  magnified,  terrifying, 
complete,  shaking  her  to  the  fiber  of  her  soul.  Her 
heart  beat  thickly.  The  terror  whose  only  thought  is 
flight  gripped  her  fiercely.  Then  the  relief  came,  — 

259 


CORRIE  WHO? 

a  doubt,  a  sickening  reassurance  of  the  absurdity  of 
her  thoughts.  Mrs.  Pinchin  a  thief?  Incredible! 
Ridiculous!  Outlandish!  It  was  all  a  nightmare; 
she  had  been  deluded  by  hope !  Led  astray !  It  was 
absurd  to  think  of  such  a  thing. 

But  if  Mrs.  Pinchin  were  only  Mrs.  Pinchin  and 
no  one  else,  who,  then,  was  Corrie? 

"  Oh  my  soul !  "  moaned  the  girl,  and  dropped  her 
face  into  her  hands.  For  doubt,  bringing  its  relief, 
had  raised  its  own  other  terrors,  too. 

Sick  with  her  depression,  Corrie  dressed  herself 
for  dinner,  an  ordeal  for  which  she  was  miserably 
unprepared.  To  face  Mrs.  Pinchin  at  any  moment 
now  seemed  trying  enough,  but  to  undergo  what  she 
felt  surely  must  be  in  store  for  her,  with  that  other 
prying,  vulgar  woman  looking  on,  was  far  more  than 
she  could  submit  to  calmly.  However,  there  was  no 
way  out  of  it,  and  turning  down  her  lamp,  Corrie 
closed  her  door  behind  her,  and  slowly  descended  the 
stairs. 

Miss  Freedlark  came  to  meet  her  in  the  hall,  more 
exasperating  than  ever  with  her  affability.  "  Well ! 
I  declare!  What  a  long  time  it  takes  you  to  prink! 
You  must  be  expecting  —  someone!"  She  smiled 
archly,  her  narrow,  fleshless  face  drawn  by  the  grin 
into  a  semblance  of  the  naked  humor  of  a  skull. 
"Now  tell  me  right  away  all  about  him!  I'm  just 
dying  to  hear  the  little  secret !  " 

Corrie  stared  at  the  woman  gravely,  her  shadowy 
eyes  betraying  no  hint  of  her  aversion  and  resent 
ment.  But  the  stare,  neither  insolent  nor  rebuking, 

260 


THE  SOBBING  ON  THE  STAIRS 

prolonged  itself  beyond  the  limit  of  mere  careless 
ness,  so  that  the  bony  smirk  faded  uncertainly.  Miss 
Freedlark's  geniality,  however,  was  of  a  kind  too  bald 
to  be  abashed  by  subtle  methods,  and  again  the  wide 
mouth  confidently  grinned  its  reassurance  —  know 
ing,  officious,  and  impertinent. 

"  Oh,  you  lucky  girl !  I  'm  sure  you  've  caught  a 
beau  who  's  swagger  —  and  rich !  " 

"  Go  into  the  drawing-room,  Miss  Freedlark. 
Perhaps  Mrs.  Pinchin  will  come  in  shortly." 

There  was  a  pointedness  in  the  rebuke  now,  to 
which  even  Miss  Freedlark's  thick  skin  was  scarcely 
proof.  Her  face  fell.  "  Why !  you  're  not  mad,  are 
you  ?  "  she  pleaded  hastily. 

"  If  you  need  anything,  ring  for  the  servants." 

Deaf  to  the  other's  profuse  murmurs,  Corrie 
stalked  into  the  dining  room,  where  Maggie,  with  a 
lowering  brow,  was  putting  the  last  touches  to  the 
dinner  table. 

"  Do  you  know  when  Mrs.  Pinchin  is  coming  in, 
Maggie?  " 

The  maid  raised  her  eyes  sullenly.  "  Sure,  all  I 
know  is  what  orders  she  give.  Dinner  a  half-hour 
early,  an*  me  an'  all  me  work  put  out." 

Maggie,  with  another  scowl,  slouched  around  to 
the  serving  table  and  snatched  up  a  dish  of  olives  and 
a  sharp-tined  fork. 

"  Can  I  help  you?  "  suggested  Corrie,  hunting  an 
excuse  to  stay  away  from  the  drawing-room  and  its 
inquisitive  tenant. 

Maggie  jabbed  an  olive  viciously  with  the  fork. 
261 


CORRIE  WHO? 

"  I  '11  not  ask  for  any  help.  There  '11  be  enough 
a'ready  minowdering  arount,  an'  a-puttin'  in  their 
fingers." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  demanded  Corrie,  icily, 
incensed  at  the  suggested  insolence. 

"  Ow !  beggin'  yer  pardon,  ma'am !  On  me  sowl  I 
did  n't  mean  you!  "  cried  Maggie,  alarmed  that  she 
had  been  misunderstood ;  "  't  was  that  other  wan  — 
her  wit'  the  bony  face  to  her  like  yer  knuckles." 

"  Maggie,  you  must  n't  talk  like  that.  Miss  Freed- 
lark  is  a  guest  in  this  house." 

"  Ow !  Glory  be !  An'  her  only  on  a  visit !  Wad 
you  ever  know  the  likes  of  that  now?  Sure,  did  n't  she 
come  a-pokin'  in  here?  And  a-puttin'  her  face  into 
all  the  closets?  And  a-pullin'  out  av  all  the  drawers? 
And  a-googlin'  arount  in  the  corners  ?  And  a-wearin' 
ye  out  wit'  her  questions  ?  '  Ow,  is  it  this  where  ye 
kape  yer  chiny?'  —  and  '  Ow,  is  it  them  where  ye 
kape  yer  preserves  ?  '  —  and  —  '  Ow,  't  is  where  ye 
find  the  linen,  ain't  it,  becowse  't  will  come  handy  like 
av  a  day  unbeknownst ! '  Ugh !  the  fairies  fly  away 
with  the  like  of  her !  "  cried  Maggie,  her  brogue 
and  her  indignation  growing  apace.  "  A-prowlint 
an'  a-puttin'  her  nose  into  places,  like  she  was  an 
owlt  woman  huntin'  eggs  av  a  morning  in  the  cow- 
byre." 

"  Maggie !  "  —  this  indignantly,  though  Corrie 
found  it  difficult  to  stifle  a  smile. 

"  Ow !  —  well,  an'  what  av  that  ?  "  Maggie  trussed 
her  elbows  to  her  sides,  and  leaned  over  with  the 
olives  outstretched  feelingly  in  one  hand,  and  the 


THE  SOBBING  ON  THE  STAIRS 

olive  fork  in  the  other.  "  Sure,  an'  wad  n't  she  be 
askin'  me  about  yerself  ,  too,  an'  -  " 

"  Maggie  !  " 

"  Oy  !  an'  ye  can't  stop  me  tellin'  ye.  A-askin'  me, 
did  I  know  yer  young  man,  an'  what  his  name  wad  be, 


"  Maggie!     Stop  this  instant  !  " 

"  Oj  •  yes  !  "  said  Maggie,  raising  her  voice  a 
little  higher,  "  an'  a-wantin'  to  know  had  ye  run  off 
the  day  from  Mrs.  Pinchin  to  meet  wit'  him,  an'  -  " 

Corrie  fled  to  the  hall,  crimson  and  infuriated.  She 
was  enraged  at  Maggie!  Enraged  at  the  Freedlark 
woman!  Enraged  at  Mrs.  Pinchin  for  bringing  the 
creature  into  the  house  to  spy  on  her  ! 

"  Sure  —  an'  would  n't  she  —  an'  was  n't  she  — 
an'  did  n't  she  ?  "  Maggie's  voice  went  on  crying 
after  her.  «  She  did,  an'  -  " 

Then  the  front  door  opened,  disclosing  Mrs. 
Pinchin. 

Her  face  was  haggard  and  of  a  leaden,  sickly  pal 
lor,  the  corners  of  her  mouth  drawn  back  into  the 
mirthless,  painful  semblance  of  a  grin.  Her  eyes, 
always  profound  and  gloomy,  burned  with  a  fiercer 
moodiness  than  ever,  and  under  the  veil  rolled  up  on 
her  bonnet  in  a  wad,  they  gleamed  forth  with  a  fixed 
and  warning  latency,  as  immobile  and  contemptuously 
menacing  as  a  snake's. 

There  was  a  bandbox  in  her  hand.  As  she  lurched 
through  the  doorway,  it  caught  on  the  woodwork,  and 
with  a  grunt  and  an  ugly  wrench  she  tore  it  free,  her 
stick  clattering  against  the  woodwork  in  her  vehe- 

263 


CORRIE  WHO? 

mence.  Freeing  her  latchkey  from  the  lock,  Mrs. 
Pinchin  slammed  the  door,  and  ponderously  turned 
around.  Her  eyes  fell  on  Corrie. 

What  the  bandbox  contained  Corrie  was  destined, 
later  on,  to  learn.  Now  it  seemed  to  be  only  a  band 
box,  a  pasteboard  case  enclosing  perhaps  a  hat  —  a 
new  bonnet  —  maybe  a  feather,  one  of  the  juvenile 
plumes  with  which  Mrs.  Pinchin  so  loved  to  deck  her 
majestic  crest.  But  the  moment  Mrs.  Pinchin's  eyes 
clapped  themselves  on  Corrie,  the  bandbox  became 
the  object  of  Mrs.  Pinchin's  instant  and  pressing 
concern. 

She  whirled  it  around  till  its  label  was  concealed, 
holding  it  behind  her  like  a  child  with  a  stolen  piece 
of  candy.  Then  she  tried  awkwardly  to  sidle  up  to 
the  door  of  her  private  room,  as  if  to  trim  sheets 
aft  into  that  safe  haven.  But  other  eyes  less  guile 
less  than  Corrie's  were  watching  her,  and  at  that 
crucial  moment,  a  piercing  voice  bugled  gleefully 
from  the  drawing-room : 

"  Oh !  here  you  are !  " 

Silence  answered  the  greeting.  Miss  Freedlark 
charged  gallantly  closer  to  the  line  of  danger. 

"  Oh !  you  've  been  shopping.  You  've  brought 
something  home." 

Still  silence.  Mrs.  Pinchin  fished  desperately  in 
her  pocket  for  the  key  to  her  private  room.  The 
bandbox  was  still  held  behind  her. 

"  Oh !  it 's  a  hat !  I  can  see  the  edge  of  the  box. 
You  've  been  buying  a  hat !  " 

A  grim  and  minatory  dumbness  settled  on  Mrs. 
264 


THE  SOBBING  ON  THE  STAIRS 

Pinchin's  face  —  a  stillness  akin  to  that  hush  before 
the  bolt  of  lightning  sluices  earthward,  bearing  de 
struction  in  the  crash. 

"  Oh !  you  must  let  me  see  it !  "  cackled  Miss 
Freedlark,  swooping  archly  at  Mrs.  Pinchin's  secret 
burden ;  "  I  'm  j  ust  dying  to  see  your  new,  pretty 
little  hat.  Do  let  me  have  a  peep !  " 

"  Mind  your  own  business!  " 

So  fell  the  lightning  bolt,  the  Jovian  lance!  The 
ripping,  lash-like  crack  of  the  detonation  burst 
upon  the  appalled  moment,  crashed  forte  possibUe, 
and  stalked  down  to  the  horizons  with  a  rumbling 
thunder  tread.  "  Ugh !  Hunh ! "  grunted  Mrs. 
Pinchin. 

That  was  all.  Afterwards  the  living  world  sat  up 
and  took  stock  of  the  casualties.  The  cloud  from 
which  this  rivening  stroke  had  fallen  hid  itself  from 
view;  for,  leaning  over  the  keyhole,  Mrs.  Pinchin 
fumbled  a  moment  with  the  lock,  the  door  gave  in, 
and  she  disappeared. 

Then  like  the  stricken  oak  —  or  would  it  be  more 
apt  to  take  some  other  sylvan  likeness?  Mind,  it  is 
Miss  Freedlark  who  is  pictured  now  —  but,  like  the 
stricken  oak,  or  maybe  stricken  poplar,  or,  likely  as 
not,  some  slim  birch  sapling,  or,  if  you  choose 
better,  a  lank,  attenuate  ash  —  like  whichever  you 
choose  of  these,  the  victim  raised  a  slightly  singed 
crest,  after  the  bolt  had  passed,  and  looked  to  see 
whether  Earth  still  survived  the  destroyer.  A  slight 
and  perfectly  uncomfortable  shudder  hunched  up 
her  shoulders  a  trifle ;  but 

265 


CORRIE  WHO? 

"  Like  some  tall  crag  that  lifts  its  awful  form, 
Rears  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the  storm,"  — 

and  all  the  rest  of  it,  Miss  Freedlark,  with  a  good 
deal  of  discomfort  to  herself,  managed  to  wring  her 
cadaverous  features  into  an  appeasing  and  benevolent 
smile.  The  lightning,  it  appeared,  had  only  chipped 
the  bark.  "  My !  "  she  exclaimed,  looking  at  Corrie 
with  an  arch  twinkle  in  her  pale,  fawning  eyes, 
"wasn't  it  funny  of  her?  —  just  on  account  of  a 
little  bandbox!  Now,  if  we  weren't  such  good 
friends  !  " 

A  deep  and  sincere  pity  for  the  woman  sprang  im 
pulsively  into  Corrie's  heart.  She  read  behind  the 
arch  twinkle  of  the  pale,  fawning  eyes ;  saw  through 
the  sprightly  affectation  of  carelessness  by  which  the 
victim  tried  miserably  to  screen  her  hurt ;  and  suffer 
ing  for  the  woman's  poorly  hidden  shame,  the  girl 
generously  forgot  the  past  hour's  vulgarity,  the  pry 
ing,  the  low-bred,  inquisitive  effort  to  delve  into  her 
affairs.  Poor  thing!  Corrie  was  little  more  than  a 
child,  yet  she  owned  the  quick  divination  that  trouble 
gives  to  one  to  detect  another's  sufferings.  Miss 
Freedlark  writhed,  and  she  saw  it. 

"  Oh !  I  am  so  sorry.  You  must  n't  feel  hurt  at 
what  she  said,  Miss  Freedlark.  Mrs.  Pinchin  really 
did  n't  mean  it,"  she  cried,  though  she  was  quite  cer 
tain,  of  course,  that  Mrs.  Pinchin  did  mean  it. 
"  She  's  just  irritable  because  she  's  tired  out.  Oh, 
I  am  so  sorry  for  you !  " 

A  wave  of  color  swept  up  into  the  woman's  face, 
and  her  eyes  took  on  a  contemptuous  hardness.  "  In- 

266 


THE  SOBBING  ON  THE  STAIRS 

deed !  "  she  exclaimed  acidly,  and  opened  her  lips  to 
continue  in  the  same  sneering  tone,  when  the  door 
behind  her  opened,  and  Mrs.  Pinchin  emerged. 

She  had  discarded  her  hat  and  coat,  and  once  more 
her  face  had  assumed  its  ordinary  dark  and  moody 
solemnity.  She  ignored  Corrie,  and,  as  if  regretful 
for  her  show  of  temper,  spoke  to  Miss  Frecdlark  in 
a  tone  that,  if  not  cheerful,  was  at  least  restrained 
and  civil. 

"  I  '11  be  down  in  a  moment.  Will  you  step  in  the 
parlor  till  I  dress  for  dinner?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  indeed !  You  must  n't  bother  about  me" 
answered  Miss  Freedlark,  mollified  and  ready  to  fawn 
again. 

At  the  stairs  Mrs.  Pinchin  turned  and  gazed  at 
Corrie,  the  glance  sweeping  her  from  head  to  foot. 
"  I  want  a  few  words  with  you,  girl,"  she  rumbled, 
peering  out  from  under  her  shaggy  brows. 

Another  scene,  thought  Corrie,  as  she  followed 
silently  in  Mrs.  Pinchin's  wake,  wondering  what  turn 
it  was  to  take.  But  why  should  she  care,  no  matter 
what  Mrs.  Pinchin  said  or  did?  Only  a  few  hours 
now,  and  she  would  be  free  —  free  of  Mrs.  Pinchin 
and  her  oppression  —  free,  no  matter  what  she  found 
out  about  herself  —  free,  whether  she  had  a  name  or 
not,  whether  nameless  or  known. 

"  Now,"  said  Mrs.  Pinchin,  suddenly,  after  closing 
the  door  behind  her,  "I want  to  know  what  you're 
up  to!" 

She  planted  her  stick  on  the  carpet,  and  gazed 
at  Corrie,  her  face  filled  with  solemnity.  More 

267 


CORRIE  WHO? 

than  ever,  she  looked  massive  and  masterful,  royal, 
almost,  as  she  stood  upright  with  her  great  head 
thrown  back  on  her  shoulders.  "  You  must  tell  me," 
she  commanded  sternly,  "  for  I  wish  to  know." 

Corrie  watched  her  curiously.  Impressed  by  Mrs. 
Pinchin's  majestic  calm,  she  felt  a  sudden  unexpected 
terror  that  she  herself  was  the  one  to  be  judged, 
rather  than  the  woman  who  now  stood  facing  her 
with  a  quiet  dignity  of  resentment.  Swiftly  at  work, 
the  girl's  mind  harked  back  to  the  recent  happenings, 
to  this  conspiracy  directed  at  her,  who,  as  well  as 
not,  might  be  innocent,  even  unsuspecting,  of  all  with 
which  she  had  been  charged  on  evidence  that  was  really 
only  suspicion.  No!  the  charge  seemed  incredible. 
Mrs.  Pinchin's  eyes,  proudly  unwavering,  still  quietly 
searched  the  girl's  face,  and  Corrie  moistened  her  lips. 

"  You  do  not  answer  me,"  murmured  Mrs.  Pinchin, 
in  a  subdued  voice. 

There  was  nothing  for  Corrie  to  answer.  Swayed 
by  the  new  view  of  her  own  conduct,  a  guilty  inter 
pretation  now  of  her  duplicity,  her  eyes  dropped 
before  the  calm,  scrutinous  face  that  seemed  to  peer 
deep  into  her  breast's  secret  depths. 

"  A  letter  was  brought  to  you  at  my  door,  to-day ; 
you  went  out  afterwards,"  said  Mrs.  Pinchin,  in  an 
even,  unaccusing  voice ;  "  will  you  tell  me  where  it 
was  from  —  where  you  went?  While  you  are  under 
my  roof  and  in  my  charge,  I  have  a  right  to  know 
how  you  conduct  yourself." 

Repressed,  dignified  still,  and  apparently  un 
affected,  Mrs.  Pinchin  awaited  the  answer  to  a  ques- 

268 


THE  SOBBING  ON  THE  STAIRS 

tion  manifestly  reasonable.  Corrie  lifted  her  troubled 
face,  uneasy  and  almost  fearful,  all  other  feelings  for 
or  against  Mrs.  Pinchin  now  abdicated  to  a  new-born 
sense  of  respect.  In  it,  too,  was  almost  admiration. 

"  I  would  rather  not  tell  you  —  I  can't,  Mrs. 
Pinchin,"  she  answered  gently ;  "  I  can't  because  it 
would  betray  a  confidence.  The  letter  was  from  a 
friend." 

"A  friend?  Girl,  what  friends  have  you?"  re 
torted  Mrs.  Pinchin,  with  no  shade  of  mockery  in 
the  question. 

"  Almost  none  —  one  or  two,  perhaps,  Mrs. 
Pinchin." 

"  Friends  !  "  repeated  the  majestic  figure,  solemnly, 
with  an  echo  close  to  a  grave  pity  hidden  behind  the 
word.  "  Friends  —  and  have  you  thought,  perhaps, 
that  these  friends  of  yours  may  be  making  you  a 
catspaw?  Have  you  suspected  they  may  be  using 
you  for  their  own  ends?  I  am  not  sure  who  your 
friends  may  be,  but  I  might  guess  —  I  might  guess," 
she  muttered  hollowly,  a  thought  reflected  in  her 
eyes.  "  Well,"  she  said  painfully,  as  if  she  mused, 
"  it  was  to  be  expected.  It  was  the  thing  that  might 
be  looked  for."  She  stared  down  at  the  floor,  as  if 
some  thought  had  started  another  train  of  thoughts. 
"  No,"  she  added  with  a  quick  look  at  Corrie,  her 
voice  rolling  deeply,  with  a  force  of  hidden  signifi 
cance  ;  "  I  've  tried  my  best.  I  've  done  all  I  could, 
but  you  are  bound  to  have  your  way.  Go  on,  girl," 
she  murmured,  her  head  raised  again  to  humble  Corrie 
with  its  pride  and  injured  dignity;  "let  nothing 

269 


CORRIE  WHO? 

stand  in  your  way  till  you  have  learned.  And  then, 
when  you  have  found  out  what  you  are  seeking, 
perhaps  I  shall  have  room  in  my  heart  to  pity 
you!" 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Pinchin  !    Why  do  you  say  that  ?  " 

The  majestic  figure  swung  alertly  toward  her. 

"  Tell  me,  then !  "  cried  Mrs.  Pinchin,  dominantly ; 
"  who  is  it  that  is  egging  you  on?  " 

Corrie  shrank  back  from  her,  once  more  hanging 
her  head. 

A  grim  silence  followed.  Mrs.  Pinchin,  with  her 
jaws  working  together,  hobbled  toward  her  dressing- 
table,  her  back  turned  to  Corrie. 

"  You  can  go  now.  I  've  had  my  say ! "  she 
growled,  after  the  pause,  and  with  her  back  still 
turned,  waved  meaningly  toward  the  door.  "  Go !  " 
Thus  dismissed,  Corrie  took  herself  from  the 
room. 

Twenty  minutes  later  the  muffled  thump  of  Mrs. 
Pinchin's  cane  sounded  on  the  stairs  as  she  ponder 
ously  descended.  She  still  wore  her  morning  attire, 
the  waist  and  skirt  of  heavy  black  brocade,  and  in 
her  hand  was  clutched  the  vial  of  smelling-salts. 
"  Come ! "  she  grumbled,  appearing  at  the  drawing- 
room  door ;  "  dinner  's  on  the  table." 

Corrie,  fumbling  over  the  music  on  the  piano, 
jumped  up  from  the  stool.  Across  the  room,  Miss 
Freedlark,  who  had  been  traveling  about,  industri 
ously  handling  the  ornaments  and  staring  at  all  the 
pictures,  turned  with  a  set  smile  and  followed. 

"  Can't  I  give  you  an  arm,  my  dear?  "  she  pleaded 
270 


THE  SOBBING  ON  THE  STAIRS 

with  Mrs.  Pinchin ;  "  you  've  had  such  a  long  day 
of  it!" 

"  No !  "  rumbled  Mrs.  Pinchin,  stumping  onward 
alone.  She  reached  the  dining  room;  and,  without 
waiting  for  anyone's  aid,  dragged  out  her  chair, 
and  fell  into  it  heavily.  Her  eyes,  lowering,  pored 
on  the  cloth  before  her ;  and  when  Maggie  set  down 
her  plate  of  soup,  Mrs.  Pinchin  stared  at  it  dully,  as 
if  for  once  her  devotion  to  the  love  of  eating  had 
become  a  secondary  thought.  Then,  when  she  had 
picked  up  her  spoon,  Mrs.  Pinchin  stirred  her  soup 
listlessly  awhile,  gulped  a  mouthful,  and  aimlessly 
went  on  stirring.  Presently  she  laid  the  spoon  on 
the  plate's  edge,  and  leaning  back  in  her  seat,  began 
absorbedly  fingering  her  napkin. 

But  however  the  hostess  showed  her  listlessness  and 
preoccupation,  Miss  Freedlark  more  than  made  up 
for  it.  Her  animation  was  distracting;  her  chatter 
endless  and  versatile.  Unaffected  by  the  grim  figure 
dreaming  moodily  at  the  table's  head,  Mrs.  Pinchin's 
guest  soared  away  into  genial  flights  of  small  talk, 
as  if  bound  to  make  herself  agreeable.  She  praised 
the  soup,  sipping  it  with  a  little  finger  stiffened  into 
elegant  rigidity.  She  praised  the  olives,  the  celery, 
and  the  radishes.  Doubtless,  she  would  have  praised 
the  salt,  too,  in  turn,  if  the  coming  of  the  fish  had  not 
distracted  her  attention.  Then  she  praised  the  fish 
and  the  crisp  potato  chips  with  it.  She  praised  the 
tartar  sauce  that  was  passed  to  her  by  Maggie,  and 
when  a  muttered  "  hunh !  "  warned  her  she  had  dwelt 
too  elaborately  on  the  subject,  she  changed  her  praise 

271 


CORRIE  WHO? 

to  something  else  of  Mrs.  Pinchin's.  Meanwhile  the 
dreamer  at  the  table's  head  played  listlessly  with  her 
fork,  never  so  much  as  looking  up  when  the  fish  was 
whisked  away  untasted. 

But  to  talk,  to  ramble  on  whether  heard  or  unheard, 
seemed  enough  to  entertain  the  guest.  Corrie  looked 
at  her  thoughtfully,  and  then  as  thoughtfully  at  Mrs. 
Pinchin.  The  somber  figure  had  now  taken  to  rolling 
her  bread  into  pellets,  a  task  she  occasionally  varied 
by  grasping  a  knife  and  fork  and  half-heartedly  pick 
ing  at  the  roast  meat  and  vegetables  before  her.  At 
the  salad,  Miss  Freedlark's  obligate  of  unceasing 
chatter  had  rounded  up  into  the  topic  of  society  — 
not  that  society  which  embraces  massed  civilization, 
but  the  society  which  is  ever  dignified  with  a  capital  S 
in  the  minds  of  those  who  interminably  chatter  and 
write  about  it. 

The  smug,  toadying  phrases  of  the  sect  rang  in 
Miss  Freedlark's  speech,  a  Rabelaisian  glossary  of 
glib  terms  and  phrases  common  to  such  women's  talk. 
There  were  junctions,  whatever  she  meant  by  that, 
and  they  were  inevitably  charming.  There  were  wed 
dings,  always  at  high  noon;  never  at  low,  vulgar 
midday.  She  spoke  of  soirees,  and  one  suspected 
she  meant  those  mediaeval  evening  receptions  that 
still  persist  on  the  West  Side.  Their  hostesses 
ranked  as  society  leaders,  and  then  they  all  sat 
down  to  a  collation.  It  was  a  swagger  evening,  one 
learned  from  Miss  Freedlark,  and  everything  was  just 
recherchee!  But  through  it  all  the  dark,  stony  vis 
age  at  the  table's  head  sat  plunged  in  dark,  self- 

272 


THE  SOBBING  ON  THE  STAIRS 

absorbed  rumination,  the  heavy  eyes  looking  up,  and 
the  massive  frame  stirring  only  when  the  chatter 
pitched  itself  into  sudden,  ecstatic  shrillness. 

Presently  the  flow  of  words  swept  toward  the  upper 
realms  of  the  chosen  field  of  inspiration.  Miss  Freed- 
lark  mentioned  other  names,  and  they  were  the  names 
of  bona  fide  gods  and  goddesses  of  the  worshiped 
Olympus,  not  petty  imitators  mured  away  in  the  side 
streets,  where  they  ate  out  their  hearts  in  envious 
apings  of  that  other  set.  She  mentioned  the  real 
thing.  The  Four  Hundred !  The  Upper  Ten !  !  The 
Big  Bugs !  !  !  The  Nobs !  The  Toffs !  The  Regular 
Swells !  The  kind  that  she  would  have  more  than 
eaten  her  heart  out  to  know !  The  kind  Mrs.  Pinchin, 
too,  had  tried  desperately  to  reach  and  had  never 
known  how  to  do  it.  The  heavy  eyes  raised  them 
selves  ;  the  talker  saw  that  moment's  gleam  of  in 
terest,  and  rose  to  it  inspiredly,  naming  other  gods 
and  goddesses  not  only  by  their  names,  but  by  their 
nicknames,  too.  It  was  Mame-this  and  Sallie-that. 
It  was  Fannie  and  Tessie  and  Lou.  Their  brothers 
and  lovers  and  husbands  were  Tom-this  and  Dick- 
that  and  Harry-whatnot.  Poor  soul!  The  woman 
seemed  to  live  on  it,  rolling  the  names  with  an  unctu 
ous  familiarity  under  her  tongue,  and  prostrating 
herself  in  worship  of  her  idols.  Mrs.  Pinchin  stared 
at  her,  as  if  enthralled ;  then  her  shoulders  quivered 
with  an  uncontrolled  shrug  of  irritation.  Once  she 
moistened  her  lips,  curling  them  into  a  sneer.  A 
little  later  she  grunted.  Miss  Freedlark  kept  on, 
absorbed  now,  for  her  own  sake,  in  the  orgy  of  re- 
18  273 


CORRIE  WHO? 

created  visions.    A  change  swept  over  Mrs.  Pinchin's 
moodiness. 

"  Hunh ! "  she  drawled,  her  face  convulsed  into  a 
shocking  leer  of  contempt ;  "  personal  friends  of 
yours,  ain't  they?  Know  'em  all  intimately,  I  guess." 

Miss  Freedlark's  mouth  opened.  Speech  was  smit 
ten  from  her  as  if  in  punishment  of  uttering  sacred 
names  in  vain.  She  blushed  furiously ;  then  the  color 
drifted  out  of  her  skin,  and  a  startling  pallor 
blenched  it.  The  insult  had  found  its  mark;  it  had 
been  chosen  with  a  savage  cruelty,  nicely  calculated 
to  stab  the  victim  to  the  quick.  Miss  Freedlark, 
squelched,  buried  her  eyes  in  her  lap. 

Smiling  beneath  her  scowl,  Mrs.  Pinchin  pushed 
back  her  chair,  and  arose,  ignoring  her  withered 
guest  as  she  turned  to  Corrie. 

"  Go  see  whether  there  's  a  hack  at  the  door.  Not 
my  own  carriage,  but  a  hack." 

The  girl  sped  from  the  room,  glad  to  get  away 
from  the  barbarous  scene.  Mrs.  Pinchin,  relapsed 
into  her  ugly  humor  of  silence,  followed  her  into  the 
hallway,  and  stood  waiting  with  a  hand  on  the  stair 
rail.  The  faint  smile  still  curled  her  lips  mockingly 
under  the  scowl,  and  once  she  looked  over  her  shoulder 
contemptuously,  as  if  to  stare  at  the  dumbed  victim 
of  her  rage  —  a  wrath  that  seemed  trembling  to  the 
brim  in  Mrs.  Pinchin's  soul. 

"Oh!  Oh!  Oh!"  whispered  Corrie  to  herself. 
"  And  she  stood  it !  How  could  she?  " 

"  Hurry  up,  you !  "  croaked  Mrs.  Pinchin,  shaking 
her  stick ;  "  is  the  hack  there  ?  " 

274 


THE  SOBBING  ON  THE  STAIRS 

Corrie  looked  out  through  the  glass  of  the  vesti 
bule.  "  Yes,  Mrs.  Pinchin.  There  's  a  carriage  at 
the  door." 

But  oh!  oh!  thought  Corrie;  how  could  the  wo 
man  swallow  an  insult  such  as  that,  and  not  resent  it? 

"  You  coming  upstairs  with  me,  Miss  Freedlark?  " 
grunted  Mrs.  Pinchin  over  her  shoulder ;  "  I  've  got 
some  work  for  you." 

Then  Corrie  knew;  Miss  Freedlark,  too,  was  a 
paid  servitor  in  that  house,  and  had  already  felt  the 
penalty. 

But  why  had  Miss  Freedlark  been  engaged?  What 
had  become  of  Miss  Maria,  too?  Where  was  Mrs. 
Pinchin  going  in  a  public  carriage  at  that  hour  of 
the  night?  On  other  nights,  when  Mrs.  Pinchin  had 
gone  forth,  either  to  the  theatre,  to  a  concert,  per 
haps  to  her  social  grubbing,  she  had  gone  invariably 
in  her  own  equipage.  A  rising  wind  rattled  at  the 
windows,  and  Corrie,  in  the  drawing-room  now,  peered 
out  at  the  sky.  Overhead  a  dull  skim  of  vapor 
leadenly  reflected  the  city's  blaze  of  light.  Shortly 
it  would  rain.  Mrs.  Pinchin  was  going  to  brave  the 
coming  storm  —  and  why  ? 

Ten  minutes  later,  the  two  women  came  down  the 
stairs ;  Mrs.  Pinchin  in  the  lead,  Miss  Freedlark  fol 
lowing  mutely  at  her  heels.  In  Mrs.  Pinchin's  hand, 
and  half  concealed  by  her  flowing  wrap,  was  a  round 
package  wrapped  in  heavy  paper,  —  the  bandbox,  as 
Corrie  saw.  She  made  no  effort  to  hold  it  out  of 
sight;  nor  could  she,  hampered  as  she  was  with  her 
stick  and  the  box  in  one  hand,  the  other  hand  fully 

275 


CORRIE  WHO? 

employed  in  clinging  to  the  stair  rail.  "  Hey !  a 
quarter  of  eight?  "  she  exclaimed  in  a  startled  tone, 
as  she  looked  up  at  the  clock ;  "  I  must  hurry.  Take 
those  things  down  to  the  carriage,  Miss  Freedlark." 

Mrs.  Pinchin's  new  assistant  was  heavily  laden. 
Under  one  arm  were  two  or  three  small  bundles ;  in 
the  other  was  a  large  pasteboard  box  such  as  tailors 
use,  the  same  size  and  kind  of  box  with  which  Mrs. 
Pinchin  had  burdened  herself  the  day  before.  Where 
was  Mrs.  Pinchin  going  now  with  that  box,  and 
where  had  she  gone  with  the  other?  More  riddles! 
More  puzzles !  More  mysteries ! 

At  the  door  the  commanding  figure  halted,  turned, 
and  leveled  her  stick  at  Corrie.  She  stared  for  a 
moment  under  her  thick  brows,  and  then  noisily 
cleared  her  throat. 

"  Now,  no  tricks  while  I  'm  away.    Do  you  hear?  " 

Shaking  her  stick  in  impressive  warning,  she  lum 
bered  through  the  doorway  and  was  gone;  and  on 
the  heels  of  her  departure  a  flaw  of  rain  burst  pat 
tering  on  the  glass  vestibule. 

The  door  of  the  waiting  carriage  slammed;  there 
was  a  clatter  of  hoofs  and  a  passing  rumble  of  wheels. 
Mrs.  Pinchin  had  set  forth  on  her  mission,  wherever 
her  destination  and  whatever  it  all  signified.  In  the 
hall  the  front  door  clicked  on  its  latch  as  Miss  Freed 
lark  softly  closed  it  behind  her,  and  then  the  lady 
herself  appeared. 

She  shuddered  slightly  as  she  entered  the  drawing- 
room,  shivering,  as  if  chilled  by  the  inclement  night. 
The  moisture  sparkled  in  her  hair,  her  face  was 

276 


THE  SOBBING  ON  THE  STAIRS 

peaked  and  downcast,  and  on  the  tip  of  Miss  Freed- 
lark's  large,  prominent  nose,  a  drop  of  rain  still 
hung  pendulously.  It  required  only  a  glance  to  show 
that  Mrs.  Pinchin  had  kept  her  standing  out  in  the 
rain  until  she  was  pretty  thoroughly  drenched. 

"  You  are  wet  through,  Miss  Freedlark,"  said  Cor- 
rie,  going  over  to  her ;  "  can't  I  get  you  something 
dry  to  put  on  ?  " 

"Me?  Oh,  I  ain't  sugar,  so  that  I  '11  melt." 
She  looked  at  Corrie  with  a  covert  suspiciousness,  and 
began  feeling  her  wet  shoulders  with  a  concern  that 
belied  the  careless  answer.  *'  What  do  you  do  with 
yourself,  evenings  ?"  she  asked  with  an  affected  un- 
interest.  "  Did  you  intend  going  out  to-night?  " 

But  notwithstanding  her  assumed  unconcern  and 
the  idle  tone  of  her  question,  Miss  Freedlark  was 
unable  to  hide  the  shrewd  interest  glittering  in  the 
corner  of  her  eye. 

"  No,"  answered  Corrie,  with  a  growing  knowl 
edge  of  the  truth,  a  guess  at  the  reason  for  Miss 
Freedlark's  presence  in  the  house ;  "  I  had  no  idea 
of  going  out.  Did  Mrs.  Pinchin  say  she  thought  I 
was?" 

"  Hey  ?  —  She  ?  —  Oh  —  why,  no !  "  exclaimed 
Miss  Freedlark,  startled.  She  leaned  over  and  tried 
ruefully  to  brush  the  dampness  from  her  skirt. 
"  Why,  I  'm  wetter  than  I  thought,"  she  murmured. 
"  Maybe  you  had  better  let  me  have  something  dry. 
I'm  just  sopping." 

"  Very  well ;  I  '11  send  one  of  the  maids  with  the 
clothes.  You  're  in  Miss  Maria's  room,  are  n't  you?  " 

277 


CORRIE  WHO? 

Corrie  got  a  wrapper  and  a  pair  of  slippers  out 
of  the  closet  on  the  top  floor.  They  were  Mrs. 
Pinchin's,  a  part  of  that  lady's  discarded  belongings, 
and  the  closet  was  filled,  like  every  other  spare  corner 
of  the  house,  with  just  such  things.  For  whatever 
Mrs.  Pinchin  could  not  pass  on  to  Corrie  or  Miss 
Maria,  she  thriftily  stored  away  with  a  jackdaw's 
covetousness. 

Corrie  rang  for  a  maid,  and  Maggie  appeared, 
growling  at  having  to  climb  the  stairs. 

"  Maggie,  take  these  things  down  to  Miss  Freed- 
lark.  She  's  in  Miss  Maria's  room." 

"  Oh,  an'  did  she  get  soaked?  "  grunted  Maggie, 
with  a  frank  smile.  "  Sure,  for  all  av  me,  I  'd  let 
her  to  be  drownded  in  her  own  boots." 

Corrie  opened  the  door  of  her  room.  "  And  say 
to  her  I  've  gone  to  bed,  Maggie.  Please  be  sure  not 
to  forget." 

Locking  herself  in,  Corrie  hurriedly  undressed. 
To  get  into  bed  and  to  go  to  sleep  would  be  the  best 
way  both  to  avoid  Miss  Freedlark's  company  and  to 
forget  the  dispiritedness  that  had  come  over  her. 
For  there  was  no  longer  any  doubt  now ;  Miss  Freed- 
lark  had  been  brought  there  to  watch  and  to  spy 
over  her;  she  was  certain  of  that. 

She  was  lowering  her  light,  when  she  thought  sud 
denly  of  the  album.  There  might  be  no  chance  to 
get  it  in  the  morning,  if  her  spy  were  still  on  guard ; 
she  must  get  it  now.  But  while  Corrie  debated  un 
decidedly  the  stair  creaked;  she  heard  someone 
coming,  and  who  that  someone  was,  Corrie  had  n't 

278 


THE  SOBBING  ON  THE  STAIRS 

the  slightest  doubt.  Out  went  the  light,  and  into  her 
bed  popped  the  girl,  and  lay  listening. 

"  It 's  me,  my  dear.  Have  you  really  and  truly 
gone  to  bed?  " 

A  muffled  voice  assured  Miss  Freedlark  that  such 
was  the  case. 

"  Oh,  I  'm  so  sorry !  I  came  up  to  have  a  nice 
little  cosy  chat  with  you." 

The  cosy  chat,  however,  had  to  be  deferred,  just 
as  Corrie  had  decided  to  defer  all  the  other  of  Miss 
Freedlark's  premeditated  chats,  cosy  or  otherwise. 

"  Well,  —  if  you  say  so.  But  I  think  you  're  real 
disappointing." 

The  footfalls  departed;  the  stairs  creaked  once 
again;  a  silence  fell  on  the  upper  regions  of  Mrs. 
Pinchin's  home. 

Corrie  felt  too  worn  out  to  get  up  again  and  light 
the  light.  She  shrugged  down  among  the  pillows,  an 
arm  above  her  head  in  an  attitude  of  repose,  and 
stared  thoughtfully  into  the  dark.  But  it  was  not 
of  Mrs.  Pinchin  that  she  thought.  Nor  was  it  of 
Corrie  Who?  —  and  Corrie  What?  Neither  that,  nor 
the  other  nebulous  dreams  of  the  past,  obscure  and 
tantalizing  in  their  haziness.  Perhaps  it  was  of 
something  else  —  someone  else?  But  the  thought 
that  came  to  Corrie  was  not  a  thought  cloaked  in 
the  usual  roseate  panoply  of  love's  young  dream. 
There  arose  in  her  mind  the  visual  image  of  that 
moment  when  she  lay  in  his  arms,  her  face  upturned 
to  his  and  his  lips  hovering  so  close  to  her  own.  She 
felt  her  heart  leap,  as  it  had  leaped  then.  In  memory, 

279 


CORRIE  WHO? 

his  softening  eyes  swam  down  to  hers ;  in  memory, 
the  arm  curled  above  her  head  slowly  moved  and  with 
her  other  arm,  together  stretched  out  into  the  dark 
toward  him.  There  they  poised  an  instant  —  wa 
vered  —  then  fell  in  despair  to  her  side. 

For  love's  young  dream  had  snatched  itself  away 
—  gone  —  withered  in  the  blighting  knowledge  again 
that  it  was  nothing  but  a  dream. 

For  not  even  a  name  was  hers  to  bring  him.  Poor 
Corrie ! 

The  hours  passed.  In  the  house's  remoter  depths 
the  hall  clock  chimed  the  measured  intervals  of  time, 
and  the  girl,  stretched  miserably  in  her  bed,  one  by 
one  counted  the  hours  wakefully.  Midnight  struck. 
The  boom  of  the  deep-toned  chime  below  ceased,  and 
stillness  followed,  —  a  profound  moment,  as  if  night 
waited  hushed,  a  finger  on  its  lips.  Corrie  stirred 
restlessly  on  her  pillows.  Her  ear,  with  that  strained 
intentness  of  one  unable  to  sleep,  engaged  itself  with 
every  little  noise ;  the  creaking  of  the  floor,  the  tick 
ing  of  her  mantel  clock,  the  whisper  of  the  rain  on 
her  window  pane,  or  a  sudden  rattle  of  the  glass  itself 
as  a  gust  surged  against  it.  A  train  on  the  L 
road  clattered  past,  its  startling  burst  of  sound 
drowning  all  other  sounds  as  it  drew  by  the  street 
end.  A  moment  later  came  a  Columbus  Avenue  sur 
face  car,  a  flat  wheel  under  its  trucks  pounding  out 
a  staccato,  jeering  refrain,  disposed  to  murder  even 
sounder  sleep.  Afterward  followed  a  belated  car 
riage,  its  horses'  shoes  clicking  sharply  on  the  wet 
asphalt.  Then  the  carriage,  the  car,  and  the  L 

280 


THE  SOBBING  ON  THE  STAIRS 

train  passed  into  the  distance.  The  silence  fell  anew, 
more  profound,  more  hushed  and  pervasive  than  be 
fore  —  a  silence  all  the  more  still  and  solemn  because 
of  its  creeping  undernote,  the  creak  of  the  floors, 
the  small,  deliberate  ticking  of  the  clock,  the  whisper 
of  the  rainflaws  tinkling  on  the  pane. 

Corrie  leaped  upright,  her  eyes  distended.  An 
other  sound!  She  heard  it  distinctly.  Somewhere 
in  the  darkened  halls  below,  the  floor  creaked  —  not 
once,  but  beneath  a  cautious  tread.  There  it  was 
again!  Throwing  back  the  covers,  the  girl  sat  up, 
her  knees  beneath  her,  and  caught  at  her  breath 
while  she  listened. 

It  came  again.  Drawing  her  nightdress  about  her 
throat,  she  slipped  from  the  bed  to  the  floor.  Who 
walked  below  there  in  the  darkened  house?  Corrie 
battled  with  the  instant's  panic;  she  must  know. 
Cautiously,  one  foot  trying  the  floor  before  her,  she 
crept  to  the  door.  Her  hand,  feeling  along  the 
panels,  found  the  key.  With  no  betraying  sound  she 
gently  drew  the  door  open,  and  peered  into  the  bulked 
gloom  of  the  hallway. 

Against  the  background  of  the  stair-well  a  faint, 
swaying  glow  diffused  itself  and  then  withdrew. 
Silence  established  itself  throughout  the  house  again, 
yet  the  girl  listening  at  her  door  was  aware  of  a 
living  thing  below,  guardedly  moving  in  the  dark. 

Again  the  light !  —  it  was  stronger  now.  The 
shadows  writhed  themselves  into  fantastic,  dancing 
shapes  leaping  monstrously;  and  a  tread  of  the 
stairs  creaked!  Someone  was  on  the  stair!  Shut- 

281 


CORRIE  WHO? 

ting  the  door  a  little  closer,  the  girl  peered  breath 
lessly  through  the  crack,  her  lips  apart,  and  her 
nostrils  quivering,  every  nerve  strung  in  torturing 
expectancy.  Who  came?  The  shadows,  capering 
wildly,  fled  away  before  the  growing  luminescence; 
the  bulked  darkness  of  the  upper  hall  narrowed  to 
visible  wall  and  ceiling,  and  still  the  light  advanced, 
its  reflection  swaying  drunkenly  on  the  background 
of  plaster.  Then  a  hand  appeared,  a  massive  claw 
holding  aloft  a  candle;  a  head  raised  itself  on  the 
stairway,  and  turned  to  stare  along  the  level  of  the 
floor. 

The  candle's  flame,  guttering  and  unsteady,  threw 
but  a  fickle  light  on  the  face  of  the  prowling  in 
truder.  Who  was  it?  In  the  pasty,  staring  white 
ness  of  that  mask  two  fixed  eyes  were  set  like  holes 
burned  in  a  paper  scroll;  the  chin  had  fallen,  and 
the  mouth,  abjectly  loose  and  debile,  hung  open, 
working  like  the  maw  of  a  gasping  fish.  Then  the 
eyes  rolled  upward  to  the  whites,  and  through  the 
night's  stillness  a  stifled,  choking  whimper  breathed, 
shrill  in  its  utterance  of  misery. 

It  was  Mrs.  Pinchin,  and  she  wept ! 

A  moment  passed.  The  taper,  flickering  in  the 
unsteady  hand,  moved  from  side  to  side,  and  was  held 
higher,  as  the  two  sunken  eyes  glared  into  the  dark 
ness  ahead,  striving  to  pierce  the  shadows.  They 
leveled  themselves  on  the  door  at  the  hall's  end,  and 
the  watcher  lurking  behind  it  shrank  back  dismayed. 
But  Mrs.  Pinchin  moved  on  unaware.  The  candle  was 
lifted  a  little  higher;  the  bulky  figure  lurched  itself 

282 


THE  SOBBING  ON  THE  STAIRS 

upward  another  step.  A  sob  racked  her,  and  she 
rolled  back  her  head,  her  face  glistening  humidly  in 
the  candlelight  —  wet  —  soaking  —  soaking  wet. 

For  through  the  night's  rain,  it  appeared,  and 
unsheltered,  unprotected,  Mrs.  Pinchin  had  come  to 
prowl  at  midnight.  Her  turban,  wound  round  with 
a  rope  of  pulpy  veiling,  had  sunk  upon  her  head  in 
a  ruin  of  dripping  silk  and  velvet;  and  beneath  the 
wreck  her  hair  escaped,  streaming  in  dank,  corded 
wisps  against  her  face.  Step  by  step,  she  heaved  her 
self  upward  to  the  stair  end,  and  there  halted,  one 
griping  hand  sprawling  upon  her  mouth. 

"  Urh !  "  she  whispered,  the  moan  wrung  from  her 
with  all  the  profound  debility  of  a  soul  in  torture. 
"  Ur-r-rh !  —  Ur-r-rh !  —  Oh,  my  GOD !  " 

Great  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks,  as  she  dropped 
her  hand  from  her  mouth.  She  turned,  and  with  her 
streaming  skirts  flapping  against  her  limbs,  dragged 
herself  along  by  the  balustrade.  For  an  instant,  the 
girl  quaking  behind  the  door,  thought  the  groping 
figure  headed  toward  her.  But  reaching  the  door  of 
the  garret  room,  where  all  the  discarded  flotsam  and 
jetsam  of  her  household  was  stored,  Mrs.  Pinchin  laid 
her  hand  on  the  knob,  raised  her  candle  overhead,  and 
slowly  disappeared. 

"Oh!  —  she  knows!"  gasped  Corrie;  and  press 
ing  her  own  door  to,  she  turned  and  thrust  all  her 
weight  against  it. 

But  that  creeping  night-prowler  beyond  had  no 
thought  of  molesting  her.  Through  the  panel  came 
to  the  girl  only  the  echo  of  the  guarded,  creeping  feet. 

283 


CORRIE  WHO? 

The  rasp  of  a  slyly  opened  drawer  sounded  once; 
after  a  pause,  the  drawer  was  as  slyly  closed;  and 
the  secret,  wary  feet  came  stealing  back  to  the  hall 
again,  patiently  slow  in  their  wariness.  Then,  once 
more  —  again  —  once  again  the  stifled,  mouselike 
whisper  of  Mrs.  Pinchin's  misery  keened  thinly  in  the 
silence;  and  daring  all,  the  girl  drew  back  the  door 
and  looked. 

It  was  as  she  had  guessed.  Mrs.  Pinchin,  her 
candle  held  aloft,  was  dragging  herself  down  the  stair 
way,  the  album  clasped  in  her  arm. 


284 


CHAPTER   XIV 

Beginning  another  day  after  an  eventful  night.  —  M r.  Stanton 
arrives  early.  —  His  rebuff  of  the  jingle-scribbler.  — 
Corrie  determines  on  flight.  —  Mrs.  Pinchin  tries  on 
a  dress.  —  Miss  Freedlark  in  her  true  colors.  —  Corrie' s 
denunciation  of  the  spy.  —  Mrs.  Pinchin's  dramatic 
threat  to  tell  Carrie's  history  to  Phil.  —  She  admits  she 
knows  who  her  companion  really  is. 

A  WILD  impulse  came  instantly  to  pursue  the 
marauder  —  to  regain  by  force  of  arms  the 
stolen  album.  She  sprang  forward,  the  cry  almost  on 
her  lips ;  then  terror  prevailed,  for  all  in  a  moment, 
she  recalled  the  face  of  pasty,  staring  whiteness  —  the 
eyes  burning  in  that  ghastly  mask  —  the  terrible 
passion  of  misery  voiced  in  Mrs.  Pinchin's  whimper 
ing  sobs.  Her  knees,  weakening,  gave  beneath  her, 
and  she  clung  to  the  door  for  support,  blindly  fum 
bling  until  she  found  the  key  and  turned  it.  For  what 
if  the  creeping  figure  lurched  up  the  stair  again,  and 
divined  of  the  watcher  spying  on  her  ?  Corrie  slipped 
across  the  floor  to  her  bed,  quaking  as  the  springs 
creaked  to  her  weight,  and  dragged  the  covers  around 
her.  She  shivered.  She  was  chilled  from  her  long 
vigil  at  the  door  —  frozen  by  her  terrors,  too.  And 
what  could  be  done  now?  The  album  was  gone,  the 
one  thing  she  counted  on  as  a  link  between  the  known 
and  the  unknown  —  gone,  never  to  be  regained.  Mrs. 
Pinchin  had  it  and  that  was  the  last  of  it.  For  in 

285 


CORRIE  WHO? 

Corrie's  breast,  the  terror  of  Mrs.  Pinchin  now  had 
risen  to  a  deep  and  terrible  respect.  She  shuddered, 
cravenly  submissive  in  her  fear. 

That  was  a  wakeful  night  at  Mrs.  Pinchin's  —  for 
the  girl ;  perhaps  for  others,  too.  Along  toward  the 
dawn  Corrie's  heavy  eyes  closed  in  fitful  sleep;  she 
tossed  among  the  pillows,  starting  at  every  sound,  her 
uneasy  drowsing  troubled  with  dire  visions.  Still, 
she  slept,  lightly  first,  and  afterwards  in  the  fast, 
drugged  unconsciousness  of  mental  and  physical 
fatigue.  Then  a  knock  sounded  on  her  door;  it  was 
the  waitress,  Maggie,  warning  her  that  half-past 
seven  had  come ;  that  another  day  had  begun. 

Mrs.  Pinchin's  closed  door  stared  at  Corrie  as  she 
came  down  the  stairs;  Mrs.  Pinchin  absented  her 
self  from  the  breakfast  table.  But  Miss  Freedlark 
was  present,  with  an  early  morning,  unaffected 
sprightliness  in  quick  contrast  to  poor  Corrie's  pale 
dejection.  As  if  blissfully  unaware  of  the  girl's  ab 
sorbed  quietness,  she  prattled  away  condescendingly, 
arrogant  again,  now  that  Mrs.  Pinchin  was  not  there 
to  repress  her;  free  and  easy  in  her  officious  self- 
assertiveness.  Indeed,  her  confidence  reached  the 
point  where  she  no  longer  made  any  bones  of  hiding 
her  employment  in  the  house.  "  You  know,  my  dear, 
it  would  n't  surprise  me  in  the  least,  if  I  was  to  be 
with  you  quite  a  little  while."  This  confession  she 
accompanied  by  another  of  her  bony  smirks,  another 
of  the  swanlike  curvettings  of  her  scraggy  neck. 
"  Would  n't  it  be  just  fine  for  us  if  I  was?  "  she  sug 
gested,  in  this  manner  affably  including  Corrie  in  her 

286 


MRS.  PINCHIN'S  THREAT 

own  patent  satisfaction.  "  What  chums  we  'd  be, 
would  n't  we  ?  Well,  we  '11  be  that  anyway,  even  if 
you  do  have  to  leave.  You  '11  find  me  a  splendid  play 
mate —  just  splendid!"  cried  Miss  Freedlark,  in  a 
perfect  rhapsody.  "  Yes !  —  now  won't  it  be  fine  — 
and,  by  the  by,  you  and  that  friend  of  yours  —  you 
know  the  one  I  mean  —  the  one  that  was  with  you 
yesterday.  Some  day  when  I  am  not  busy,  you  and 
she  must  come  and  take  me  out  for  a  ride  in  her  pretty 
carriage.  What  did  you  say  was  her  name?  "  asked 
Miss  Freedlark,  spryly. 

There  was  no  way  by  which  Corrie  could  very  well 
dodge  so  point  blank  an  attack.  Silence  would  not 
aid  her ;  for  Miss  Freedlark  had  leaned  forward  with 
a  mincing  smile,  attentive,  perhaps  insistent.  But 
Corrie's  eyes,  roaming  about  helplessly,  caught  a 
swift  glance  from  Maggie,  the  waitress. 

"  Mush?  "  demanded  Maggie,  and  thrust  the  dish 
under  Miss  Freedlark's  face. 

"Eh  —  oh-h  —  what-say?  I  haven't  finished 
what  I  have." 

As  Corrie  gulped  the  last  of  her  coffee,  she  was 
aware  of  Maggie  poised  behind  Miss  Freedlark  with 
her  face  spread  in  a  wide  and  delighted,  impudent 
grin.  Corrie  had  no  appetite;  she  would  have  fled, 
anyway. 

Drifting  down  the  hall,  she  wandered  into  the 
drawing-room.  The  shades  were  up ;  the  night's  rain 
had  passed,  and  all  the  world  outside  sparkled  in  the 
glare  of  sunshine.  But  there  was  no  sunlight  or 
sparkle  in  the  girl's  leaden  breast.  Hopelessly  cer- 

287 


CORRIE  WHO? 

tain  that  Mrs.  Pinchin  held  the  whip-hand  at  every 
turn,  convinced  that  her  own  efforts  were  in  vain,  she 
was  ready  to  give  up  the  struggle  —  all  the  more 
ready  when  she  remembered  her  oppressor's  signifi 
cant  words  of  the  night  before,  the  warning  that  if 
Corrie  persisted,  there  would  be  an  awakening  such  as 
she  had  never  dreamed.  But  why  had  Mrs.  Pinchin 
stolen  the  album,  just  as  she  had  stolen  everything 
else  from  Corrie?  Why  had  Mrs.  Pinchin  done  that 
unless  there  were  some  vital,  powerful  reason  to  make 
away  with  it?  And  how  had  she  learned  its  secret 
hiding  place?  Corrie  caught  her  breath.  Had  the 
Freedlark  woman  been  responsible?  Had  the  spy, 
paid  to  watch  her,  smelled  it  out?  The  girl's  wrath 
sprang  up  at  the  thought,  raged  a  moment,  and 
then  burned  itself  away.  What  did  it  matter,  after 
all?  Corrie,  listlessly  ruminating,  was  turning  away 
from  the  window  through  which  she  had  been  star 
ing  morosely,  when  a  hansom  cab  rattled  up  to  the 
curb  and  drew  rein  at  Mrs.  Pinchin's  door. 

Mr.  Stanton  again,  and  once  more  in  un-Chester- 
fieldian  hurry ! 

Before  the  cab  had  come  to  a  halt,  his  foot  was  on 
the  sidewalk  and  he  was  hurrying  towards  the  steps. 
Corrie,  seeing  him,  tried  to  shrink  behind  the  cur 
tains  unseen,  but  Mr.  Stanton  detected  the  move 
ment.  He  looked  up,  and  when  he  saw  who  it  was, 
for  the  least  possible  fraction  of  a  second,  Mr.  Stan- 
ton  halted  irresolutely.  Then,  with  a  faint,  derisive 
grin,  he  came  on  up  the  steps,  and  the  girl  heard  the 
rattle  of  his  key  in  the  latch. 

288 


MRS.  PINCHIN'S  THREAT 

"  Ah !  the  dear  young  girl ! "  cried  Mr.  Stanton 
with  his  usual,  subtle  mockery,  as  Corrie  tried  to 
hurry  away  from  him  down  the  hall.  "  Are  you  really 
hastening  off  without  a  '  Good  morning,'  even  ?  " 

"  Good  morning,  Mr.  Stanton,"  answered  Corrie, 
dully. 

"  Come ;  now  that 's  much  more  cheerful !  "  de 
clared  Mr.  Stanton,  benignly.  "  Let 's  shake  hands 
on  it,  too,"  he  suggested,  and  solemnly  extended  his 
own,  as  he  advanced  towards  her. 

"  You  wish  to  see  Mrs.  Pinchin,  don't  you  ? " 
Corrie  inquired,  ignoring  the  outstretched  hand. 
"  I  '11  send  word  to  her  that  you  are  here." 

Though  Mr.  Stanton  had  appeared  to  be  in  a 
towering  hurry  at  first,  he  now  seemed  a  little  less 
in  haste.  Corrie,  already  at  the  stairs,  stood  with 
her  hand  on  the  balusters,  and  reaching  forward,  Mr. 
Stanton,  with  an  unexpected  movement,  grasped  it 
caressingly.  "  Why  are  you  running  away  ?  Not 
vexed  with  me,  are  you,  my  dear?  "  he  asked  plain 
tively,  and  tried  again  to  press  her  fingers  gently. 

It  was  while  Corrie  was  struggling  to  snatch  her 
hand  away  that  a  third  figure  introduced  itself 
into  the  tableau;  namely,  Miss  Freedlark,  whose 
brows  raised  themselves  in  knowing  significance,  as  if 
realizing  the  state  of  affairs. 

"  Oh !  I  trust  I  don't  intrude !  "  she  exclaimed,  with 
an  indulgent  shyness  meant  to  suit  what  she  had 
romantically  conceived  the  situation  to  be. 

Corrie,  flushing  shamefuly,  dragged  away  her 
hand,  and  Mr.  Stanton  turned.  If  he  recognized  Miss 
19  289 


CORRIE  WHO? 

Freedlark,  there  was  no  hint  of  the  knowledge  in  his 
elevated  brow  —  in  the  cool  inquiry  of  his  gray, 
supercilious  eye.  Corrie  seized  the  moment's  oppor 
tunity  to  run  up  the  stairs,  but  at  the  floor  above 
she  was  unable  to  resist  the  inclination  to  hear  what 
happened  below. 

"  Oh,  how  do  you  do,  Mr.  Stanton !  "  Miss  Freed 
lark  gurgled ;  and  then,  perhaps  because  of  the  blank 
indifference  of  Mr.  Stanton's  expression,  "  Don't  you 
remember  me?  I'm  Miss  Freedlark!" 

"  Miss  Freedlark?  —  ah,  to  be  sure!  "  echoed  Mr. 
Stanton,  with  no  awakening  response  in  either  tone 
or  manner. 

"  Why,  don't  you  remember  ?  I  met  you  in  the 
drawing-room.  Mrs.  Pinchin  introduced  us.  I  read 
a  poem." 

Mr.  Stanton  delicately  combed  his  silky  side  whis 
kers  through  his  finger  tips.  "  A  poetess !  —  why, 
fancy !  "  he  drawled  leisurely.  "  And  since  when  did 
Mrs.  Pinchin  attach  a  poetess  to  her  retinue,  may  I 
be  tempted  to  inquire  ?  " 

It  must  have  been  his  tone,  rather  than  his  words 
themselves,  that  awoke  the  woman  to  the  insolence  of 
the  question.  Like  all  other  impertinently  prying 
natures,  she  was  sensitively  quick  to  feel  insolence 
when  it  was  directed  at  herself.  Corrie,  in  fancy, 
could  almost  see  her  writhe. 

"You  wish  to  see  Mrs.  Pinchin?"  observed  Miss 
Freedlark,  in  icy  tones.  "  She  has,  as  yet,  not  risen." 

Mr.  Stanton's  practiced  drawl  resumed  itself. 
"  Ah  —  as  yet  not  risen  ?  —  Indeed !  —  As  you  im- 

290 


MRS.  PINCHIN'S  THREAT 

agine,  I  do  wish  to  see  Mrs.  Pinchin  —  that  is,  if 
it  quite  meets  with  your  convenience  —  and  approval, 
Miss  —  ah !  —  Miss  Fishhawk." 

There  was  no  reason  to  believe,  from  the  clearness 
with  which  it  was  spoken,  that  Mr.  Stanton  meant 
the  name  for  anything  else  than  a  burlesque.  She 
did  look  like  a  fishhawk,  and  Corrie,  stung  with  a 
shameful  pity  for  her,  sped  up  the  stairs,  determined 
to  hear  no  more.  The  end  of  it,  nevertheless,  reached 
her  as  she  hurried  on. 

"  Freedlark,  if  you  please  —  Freedlark  is  the 
name !  "  corrected  the  icy  voice,  more  icily.  "  What 
is  your  business  with  Mrs.  Pinchin?  I  will  take 
whatever  message  you  have  for  her." 

Then  the  climax  came  abruptly.  There  was  no 
longer  any  subtle  concealment  of  mockery  and  inso 
lence  in  Mr.  Stanton's  tone  as  he  raised  his  voice  in 
answer. 

* 

"  Oh,  the  deuce  you  will !  "  he  cried,  as  if  his  tem 
per,  strained  too  far,  had  snapped  under  the  strain. 
"  When  I  require  your  interest  in  my  behalf,  I  '11 
apply  for  it  —  do  you  understand  ?  Now  flit  back  to 
your  jingles,  madame!  "  sneered  Mr.  Stanton;  "  for 
I  'm  going  upstairs  to  see  your  mistress  without 
either  your  aid  or  your  interference ! " 

And  with  no  further  ado  Mr.  Stanton  sprang  up 
the  stair,  gained  the  floor  above,  and,  with  an  im 
perative  knock,  loudly  announced  himself  to  the  lady 
mured  within. 

Astounded  to  the  point  of  dismay,  Corrie  reached 
her  room.  Who  was  this  Mr.  Stanton,  and  what  was 

291 


CORRIE  WHO? 

his  place  in  that  house?  What  were  his  rights,  in 
deed,  that  he  should  thrust  himself  like  this  into  the 
midst  of  Mrs.  Pinchin's  privacy  and  repose?  Day 
by  day,  hour  by  hour,  the  coil  of  mystery  had  thrown 
itself  into  a  tangle  now  far  beyond  any  effort  of  hers 
to  unravel.  But  whatever  it  was,  she  realized  in 
stantly  now,  and  with  a  decision  which  admitted  no 
further  temporizing  on  her  part,  that  this  house  no 
longer  offered  a  shelter  under  which  she  could  remain 
with  dignity  —  no,  with  decency  —  either  with  dig 
nity  or  decency. 

But  how  could  she  escape  undetected?  It  was  a 
thought  more  pregnant  in  her  mind,  at  the  moment, 
than  the  thought  of  where  she  could  go,  once  she  did 
make  her  escape.  She  dragged  out  a  change  of 
clothes  —  all  she  would  be  able  to  carry  with  her  in 
her  flight  —  tossing  them  helter-skelter  on  the  bed. 
What  would  happen  when  they  saw  her  trying  to 
get  away  ?  Miss  Freedlark  was  watching  below ;  she 
would  see  Corrie  and  her  bag,  and  at  once  sound  the 
alarm.  But  never  mind !  She  must  take  that  chance. 
Her  bag  was  in  the  storeroom;  she  must  get  it  at 
once.  Opening  her  door,  Corrie  hurried  down  the 
hall,  her  footfalls  as  guarded  as  Mrs.  Pinchin's  had 
been  when  she  had  come  prowling  through  the  night. 
She  reached  the  storeroom;  her  hand  was  already 
turning  the  knob,  when  up  through  the  well  of  the 
stairway  there  came  the  muffled  rumble  of  a  voice 
raised  high  in  exasperation. 

It  was  Mrs.  Pinchin's  voice,  and  it  thrilled  with 
reckless  anger. 


MRS.  PINCHIN'S  THREAT 

"  —  sheer  idiocy !  I  said  so  —  you  made  me  ask 
him!" 

That  was  all.  The  words,  fragmentary,  disjointed 
in  their  sense,  broke  off,  as  if  the  owner  of  the  tower 
ing  voice  had  been  discreetly  warned.  Sheer  idiocy! 
Yes,  it  must  have  been  that,  if  Mrs.  Pinchin's  angry 
accusation  held  any  weight.  But  what  was  sheer 
idiocy,  and  why  was  it  that,  because  someone  had 
been  asked?  Who  asked  who  —  and  what  was  it  they 
had  asked.?  "Oh — "  exclaimed  Corrie,  petulantly, 
and  shoved  open  the  storeroom  door. 

She  was  still  rummaging  after  the  bag  when  she 
heard  Mrs.  Pinchin's  door  open,  and  the  sound  of  Mr. 
Stanton's  drawling  voice.  "  Do  you  think  I  'd  be 
here,  if  it  was  ?  Ta  ta !  You  're  making  a  mountain 
out  of  a  molehill,  that 's  all." 

With  these  ambiguous  words  Mr.  Stanton  went  on 
down  the  stairs,  and  the  stiff  thwacking  of  Mrs. 
Pinchin's  cane  resounded. 

Corrie  listened.  The  heavy,  lurching  footfall 
thudded  around  the  floor  below,  passed  distantly,  and 
then  returned.  Mrs.  Pinchin's  door  slammed,  as  she 
closed  it;  Mrs.  Pinchin  had  immured  herself  again. 
Plunging  into  the  gloom  of  the  storeroom,  Corrie, 
reassured,  groped  around  for  her  bag.  She  had  for 
gotten  where  last  she  had  seen  it,  and  the  search  pro 
longed  itself.  Perhaps  it  had  been  put  on  top  of  the 
trunks.  She  climbed  on  a  chair  and  looked ;  the  bag 
was  not  there.  Scrambling  to  the  floor  again,  Corrie 
probed  deeper  into  the  gloom.  There  she  found 
it,  lying  wedged  in  between  a  bureau  and  the  wall. 

293 


CORRIE  WHO? 

All  her  strength  was  required  to  drag  it  out, 
and  panting  with  the  exertion,  she  lifted  it  up  and 
went  back  to  the  hall. 

There  stood  Mrs.  Pinchin,  both  hands  on  the  cross 
bar  of  her  stick,  and  leaning  forward  to  watch  her. 

Her  face  had  settled  itself  into  the  fixed  solemnity 
of  an  owl's,  —  an  aspect  still  closer  because  of  her 
arched,  Jew-like  beak,  the  drooping  mouth  beneath  it 
with  the  lips  thinly  compressed,  the  flat  flabbiness 
of  her  cheeks,  and  her  eyes'  rounded  glare.  Corrie 
watched  her  helplessly,  and  Mrs.  Pinchin  was  the 
first  to  speak. 

"  What  are  you  doing?  "  she  asked  in  a  controlled 
voice. 

"I  —  I  'm  —  I  was  looking  for  my  bag." 

"  So  I  see,"  remarked  Mrs.  Pinchin,  with  no  ex 
pressed  interest  in  the  reason  that  had  led  Corrie  to 
look  for  it.  "  You  are  also  intending  to  go  out  — 
to  skip  out,  I  should  say  —  the  way  you  did  yesterday 
and  the  day  before.  I  presume  you  have  that  in 
mind,"  added  Mrs.  Pinchin,  with  subdued  mockery  in 
her  voice.  She  kept  on  staring  at  the  girl,  her  hands 
still  clenching  the  handle  of  her  cane.  "  Well,  we  '11 
discuss  that  later.  But  in  the  meantime,"  she  said, 
in  a  voice  that  signified  it  would  brook  no  contradic 
tion,  "  you  '11  come  downstairs,  and  do  the  work  I 
have  for  you.  When  it 's  finished,  there  will  be  time 
enough  to  argue  your  own  affairs."  Mrs.  Pinchin 
raised  her  stick  and  pointed  to  the  stairs.  "  Drop 
that  bag  and  go  down  those  stairs,"  she  ordered,  each 
word  uttered  with  a  slow  and  ugly,  separate  distinct- 

294 


MRS.  PINCHIN'S  THREAT 

ness  that  betokened  the  nature  of  her  mood.  "  Do 
you  hear?  " 

Corrie  bent  her  head  and  went. 

"  One  moment !  "  called  Mrs.  Pinchin,  as  if  in  after 
thought  ;  "  where  are  your  hat  and  coat?  " 

The  girl  raised  a  trembling  hand  and  pointed  to 
her  room. 

"  That 's  all.     Now  go  on." 

Mrs.  Pinchin's  heavy  tread  dragged  along  the 
upper  hall;  Corrie  heard  her  close  the  opened  door, 
and  the  key  grated  harshly  in  the  wards  as  she  locked 
it.  Then,  after  a  final  rattling  of  the  knob,  as  Mrs. 
Pinchin  made  sure  the  door  was  securely  fastened, 
the  thump  of  the  cane  renewed  itself.  Mrs.  Pinchin 
reappeared,  a  grim  smile  on  her  face. 

But  once  she  had  closed  the  door  of  her  room,  her 
manner  underwent  a  change.  "  Well  —  now,  my 
child ! "  she  croaked  with  a  sudden  j  oviality  and 
cheerfulness,  as  disconcerting  as  the  mood  of  ugly 
warning ;  "  since  we  've  got  a  lot  to  do,  we  might  as 
well  begin  —  what  d'  you  say?  "  Chuckling  unnatu 
rally,  she  bobbed  over  to  the  closet,  dragged  the  door 
open,  and  propelled  herself  inside.  Corrie  wondered 
dully  what  was  in  the  wind.  "  Here  you  are,  now !  " 
cackled  Mrs.  Pinchin,  reappearing  with  an  armful  of 
silks  and  satins,  a  piled-up  freight  of  gowns,  flounced 
and  furbelowed,  lace-trimmed  and  plain.  "  See  all 
the  work  we  have !  "  she  cried,  and  j  ocularly  clucked 
her  tongue,  leering  at  Corrie  while  she  spoke  with  a 
forced  indulgence  and  good  nature.  "  I  guess  it  '11 
keep  us  going  for  a  while,  anyway.  Did  you  ever 

295 


CORRIE  WHO? 

see  such  a  mess  as  my  things  are  in?  I  declare 
they  're  only  fit  to  throw  away." 

But  as  if  fearful  she  had  n't  provided  enough  work 
for  the  day,  Mrs.  Pinchin  tossed  the  dresses  on  the 
bed,  and  plunging  back  into  the  closet,  emerged  with 
a  second  assortment.  "  Here  we  are  now  —  anyway, 
I  guess  it  '11  be  enough  to  begin  on." 

Corrie  wonderingly  submitted.  Nor  had  she 
strength  left  for  anything  else  than  surrender. 
Chuckling  and  grinning,  and  wheezing  gaily,  Mrs. 
Pinchin  led  her  to  a  chair  by  the  window,  and  began 
dragging  one  dress  after  another  off  the  bed,  and 
piling  them  on  Corrie's  lap. 

"What!  you  haven't  your  sewing  bag?  Never 
mind ;  you  can  use  mine.  Now  this  old  crepe  here." 
Mrs.  Pinchin  snatched  it  up,  and  squaring  off  a  step, 
draped  it  in  display  over  her  massive  limbs.  "  Look 
at  it !  "  she  commented ;  "  a  regular  scarecrow  —  all 
trimmed  with  dull  lace,  too !  The  idea  of  a  fool  dress 
maker  making  a  fright  like  that  for  a  woman  without 
a  gray  hair  in  her  head !  "  Mrs.  Pinchin  turned  up 
her  nose  whimsically,  and  again  clucked  her  tongue. 
"  Pull  it  all  to  pieces.  Rip  it  right  apart.  That  lace 
can  go.  We  '11  have  a  rosette  here  —  and  another 
here  —  and  one  there  —  and  so  on.  Those  last  ones 
you  made  were  rather  good.  Three  on  each  side  of 
the  revers  will  do.  Out  of  pink  ribbon.  No,  make 
'em  out  of  baby  blue." 

Mrs.  Pinchin  threw  down  the  dress,  and  snatched 
up  another.  "  Now  this  plum-color  brocade.  Look 
at  here !  —  you  see  what  I  want  done  with  it  ?  People 

296 


MRS.  PINCHIN'S  THREAT 

must  be  tired  seeing  it  on  me."  She  paused  long 
enough  to  help  herself  to  a  stuffed  prune  from  a  box 
on  her  dressing-table,  and  with  her  mouth  full,  went 
on  mumbling  her  directions.  "  These  berthas  are  kind 
of  out  of  style,  ain't  they  ?  Anyway,  they  are,  if  they 
ain't  trimmed  with  ruffles.  Rip  it  all  off  —  every  bit 
of  it.  I  '11  show  you  what  I  mean." 

Standing  up  before  the  pier  glass,  Mrs.  Pinchin 
stripped  off  her  dressing-sack.  Her  bust  with  its 
massive  arms  was  revealed,  clothed  in  French  em 
broidery,  and  the  top  of  a  black  silk  petticoat  blos 
soming  with  large  plum-colored  flowers.  Utterly  un 
conscious  of  the  grotesque,  she  hobbled  over  to  the 
closet,  and  drew  forth  a  wide  picture  hat  surmounted 
by  flowing  plumes.  "  Now  just  catch  the  whole  effect, 
child,"  she  directed,  settling  the  hat  on  her  head, 
and  picking  up  the  waist  of  the  brocade  evening 
gown.  "  It  ought  to  be  like  this."  To  make  her 
words  clear,  she  tucked  the  collar  under  her 
chin,  and  smoothed  down  the  discredited  bertha. 
"  Rip  this  all  off,  and  put  a  few  ruffles  here,  and 
then  —  " 

A  rap  on  the  door  sounded. 

"  —  these  sleeves,  too.  See  who  's  that  rapping. 
The  sleeves  might  be  let  out  a  little.  Yes,  I  guess 
so,  and  then " 

Maggie  stood  outside  in  the  hall.  She  beckoned 
mysteriously  to  Corrie,  signaling  with  her  head  for 
the  girl  to  follow  her.  As  Corrie  made  no  effort  to 
follow,  Maggie  leaned  forward,  her  hand  held  up  to 
the  side  of  her  mouth,  and  her  face  spread  in  another 

297 


CORRIE  WHO? 

of  her  wide  and  meaning  grins.  "  He 's  at  the 
'phoone.  Yer  young  man  '11  be  waantin'  ye !  " 

"  —  cut  Princess  fashion,"  mumbled  Mrs.  Pinchin, 
backing  to  and  fro  before  the  glass ;  "  with  an  inser 
tion  of  panne  velvet,  and  —  " 

Corrie  slipped  through  the  door  and  down  the 
stairs. 

"  —  gathered  full,"  said  the  voice,  and  stopped 
short. 

As  Corrie  reached  the  pantry  door,  Mrs.  Pinchin, 
leaning  over  the  balusters,  was  crying  excitedly: 
"  Miss  Freedlark !  Miss  Freedlark !  " 

The  girl  snatched  up  the  receiver  and  put  it  to  her 
ear.  "  Listen  —  listen  to  me  quickly.  I  have  time  to 
say  only  a  few  words.  I  can't  get  to  you  to-day.  I 
don't  know  when  I  can.  Oh,  Phil  —  Phil!  do  what 
you  can  to  find  out !  "  A  step  came  hurrying  along 
through  the  dining  room,  and  Corrie  heard  it.  "  I 
can't  help  myself  any  more!  I  can't  get  away  from 
this  house." 

His  voice  rang  back  to  her  through  the  wire,  the 
diaphragm  of  the  receiver  humming  with  its  force. 
She  cried  back  at  him.  "  I  can't,  don't  ask  me  — 
Oh,  someone  's  coming !  " 

"  Tell  me  why  you  can't.  You  must ! "  he  de 
manded.  He  was  still  insisting,  when  a  face  peeped 
through  the  swinging  door  —  not  Mrs.  Pinchin's, 
though  it  made  little  difference  now.  "  Oh,  you  're 
telephoning,  are  you?  "  murmured  Miss  Freedlark, 
making  no  effort  to  retire. 

Through  the  wire  Corrie  heard  him  still  insisting 
298 


MRS.  PINCHIN'S  THREAT 

for  a  reason.  His  voice,  too,  was  filled  with  an  undis 
guised  concern.  Miss  Freedlark  still  looked  on, 
plainly  of  no  mind  to  move  until  Corrie  hung  up  the 
receiver. 

"  Why  can't  you  get  out,  Corrie  ?  What  have  they 
done  to  you?  "  Corrie  shook  from  head  to  foot  be 
fore  answering  him,  as  she  gazed  straight  into  Miss 
Freedlark's  face. 

"Because  I'm  watched!  Watched!  WATCHED!" 
she  cried  back :  "  I  'm  watched  —  and  can't  get  out !  " 

Dropping  the  telephone,  Corrie  swung  around 
on  the  eavesdropper,  her  face  white  and  her  hands 
clenched  to  her  side. 

"What  do  you  want?  —  Was  that  it?  —  Now  go 
and  tell  Mrs.  Pinchin  if  you  like ! " 

But  there  was  no  need  for  the  tale-bearing;  a 
furious  thumping  on  the  stairs  warned  of  Mrs. 
Pinchin's  approach.  She  came  through  the  dining 
room,  thrusting  Miss  Freedlark  roughly  aside,  and 
gripped  Corrie  by  the  wrist.  "  Come ;  I  '11  settle 
with  you  now !  "  she  muttered.  Her  grip  tightened 
on  the  girl's  arm,  and  Corrie,  dazed  and  unresisting, 
went  with  her.  Together  they  gained  the  room  above ; 
Mrs.  Pinchin  pushed  her  inside  and  followed.  "  Sit 
down,"  she  said,  and  Corrie  fell  upon  a  chair. 

Mrs.  Pinchin's  face  had  turned  white  again.  She 
was  breathing  stertorously,  her  huge  frame  shaken 
by  it,  and  one  hand  clutched  tightly  at  the  breast  of 
her  dressing-sack,  which  she  had  again  put  on.  But 
presently  speech  came  to  her,  choking  and  difficult. 

"  You  're  going  to  defy  me,  are  you?  You  're  still 
299 


CORRIE  WHO? 

determined  to  keep  on  ?  "  Mrs.  Pinchin  dragged  her 
brows  close  together,  and  leaned  closer  to  the  girl. 
"  Yes,  I  see  you  are.  But  I  know  what  you  're  up  to 
—  I  know  —  and  you  won't  be  warned?  Is  that  it, 
hey?  Well,  listen !"  she  cried,  growling  out  the  words. 
"  I  won't  tell  you  what  you  're  trying  to  find  out  — 
no ;  for  I  've  tried  to  shield  you  from  that  for  years. 
My  God !  but  I  've  been  patient  with  you !  I  won't 
tell  you  even  now,  though  I  know  who  you  are  —  yes, 
I  know  all  about  you,  girl.  I  won't  try  to  hide  that 
from  you  any  longer.  But  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  will 
do.  Say  the  word  —  tell  me  you  want  me  to,  and 
I  '11  send  for  him!  You  know  who  I  mean  —  if 
you  're  willing,  I  '11  send  for  that  young  whipper- 
snapper.  I  '11  tell  him  what  I  know  about  you  —  who 
you  are  —  and  whether  you  have  a  name  or  not !  I  '11 
tell  your  young  Mister  Philip  Geikie  all  that  he  wants 
to  know  —  and  more!  "  shrilled  Mrs.  Pinchin,  stamp 
ing  the  floor  with  her  cane.  "  Then  if  he  has  the  face 
to  tell  it  to  you,  let  him  —  aye,  let  him,  do  you  hear  ?  " 
she  croaked ;  "  though  to  my  belief,  I  don't  think 
you  'd  ever  see  him  again !  " 

"  Oh !  "  gasped  Corrie,  in  a  frozen  voice. 

Mrs.  Pinchin  lifted  herself  by  her  stick.  "  Come, 
is  it  a  go  ?  "  she  demanded  thickly ;  "  shall  I  send 
for  him?" 


300 


In  which  Carrie  tries  to  decide  whether  ignorance  is  bliss 
where  it  is  folly  to  be  wise.  —  Dressmaking  as  a  balm  for 
unhappiness.  —  The  plum-colored  brocade.  —  The  lady 
at  the  door.  —  How  Corrie  was  kidnapped  from  Mrs. 
Pinchin's.  —  Why  nothing  made  any  difference  to  Phil. 
—  The  kiss  of  good-bye.  —  Randolph  Tollabee's  daughter 
is  found. 


huddled  down  in  her  seat,  and  held  fast 
to  the  chair's  wide  arms.  Mrs.  Pinchin's  jaws 
were  clenched  together  ;  there  was  no  moment's  weak 
ening  pity  in  her  determined  eyes.  "  Hurry  up  !  " 
she  ordered,  stamping  the  floor  again  with  her  cane  ; 
"  I  'm  waiting  for  you  to  decide  !  " 

The  devilish  ingenuity  of  the  situation  forced  itself 
clearly  on  Corrie's  mind.  The  chance  had  been  offered 
her  to  learn  the  truth  at  last,  but  what  a  chance  !  — 
what  a  choice  !  Who  but  Mrs.  Pinchin  could  have  de 
vised  it  ?  —  to  leave  to  him  the  decision  whether  she 
should  be  told  the  secret  that  might  wreck  all  between 
them  !  Mrs.  Pinchin's  mouth  curled  into  a  faint  grin 
of  derision,  as  if  she  guessed  the  torment  the  choice 
had  brewed. 

"  You  've  got  to  make  up  your  mind  now  —  and  do 
it  quick.  Hurry  up,  there  !  " 

"  Oh  —  oh,  Mrs.  Pinchm!  " 

The  girl  pressed  both  hands  to  her  face,  crying 
301 


CORRIE  WHO? 

her  appeal,  yet  knowing,  before  she  uttered  it,  how 
hopeless  it  was. 

"  All  right,  then !  "  answered  Mrs.  Pinchin,  step 
ping  back,  as  if  to  go ;  "I  '11  send  for  him.  I  '11  tell 
him  what  you  and  he  have  dragged  me  into  telling. 
Then  you  two  can  do  what  you  please  between  you. 
Mind  now;  don't  you  come  crying  back  to  me, 
though !  "  she  warned,  shaking  her  stick  at  Corrie. 
"  I  suppose  you  think  he  '11  stand  by  you.  All  right ! 
You  can  think  what  you  choose.  Maybe  he  '11  be  will 
ing  to  give  you  his  own  name.  Yes !  "  cried  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin,  laughing  scornfully.  "  Maybe  he  will,  and  then 

—  well,  maybe  his  mother  will  be  willing  to  let  him. 
But  suit  yourself ;    I  've  had  my  say.     So  now  I  'm 
going  to  stop  all  this !  " 

But  before  Mrs.  Pinchin  could  reach  the  door  Cor 
rie  was  there  before  her.  She  threw  herself  against 
it,  and  shaking  from  head  to  foot,  turned  to  make 
a  final  appeal. 

"  No !  —  no,  no  —  you  must  not !  I  won't  let  you 
do  it.  Give  me  time  to  think  —  just  a  little  time. 
Oh !  oh,  Mrs.  Pinchin !  Can't  you  see  what  it  means 
to  me?  " 

Leaning  against  the  door,  she  threw  out  her  hands 
in  appeal,  hunting  —  though  with  no  degree  of  hope 

—  for   some   sign    of   compassion   in    the   unfeeling, 
mocking  eyes. 

"  Oh!  so  that  's  the  way  you  feel  about  it,  is  it?  " 
inquired  Mrs.  Pinchin,  seeing  clearly  that  it  was  in 
deed.  "  You  'd  like  to  know  it  yourself,  but  you 
don't  want  him  to  be  told?  Don't  fool  yourself,  my 

302 


KIDNAPPED  FROM  MRS.  PINCHIN'S 

girl!  Young  men  don't  moon  around  these  days 
like  kitchen  heroes,  marrying  the  first  nobody  they 
come  across.  You  '11  not  keep  your  secret  from  him, 
and  hope  to  get  a  husband  into  the  bargain.  Agr !  " 
she  grunted,  with  a  gust  of  scourging  contempt ; 
"  to  think  of  you  two  gawking  fools  putting  me 
to  a  bother  like  this !  It 's  abominable !  Yes ! 
you  two  trying  to  drive  me  into  a  corner,  and 
making  my  life  miserable.  Oh !  good  Lord ! " 
grunted  Mrs.  Pinchin,  and  threw  up  her  hands  in 
disgust. 

Corrie  waited  until  she  had  finished.  "  Give  me  a 
little  time  to  think  —  you  will,  won't  you  ?  You  won't 
be  so  heartless  and  cruel  as  to  tell  him  now?  Let  me 
see  him  once  again,  Mrs.  Pinchin,  and  then  you  may 
do  what  you  wish.  It  won't  make  any  difference  after 
that.  Say  you  will  do  that  —  promise  me,  won't  you, 
Mrs.  Pinchin  ?  Promise  that,  and  I  '11  do  anything 
you  tell  me !  " 

Mrs.  Pinchin  walked  leisurely  to  the  table  beside 
her  bed  and  helped  herself  to  a  caramel.  There  was 
a  pause  while  she  slowly  peeled  off  the  waxed  paper 
covering,  and  put  the  candy  in  her  mouth  and  licked 
her  finger  tips.  "  Um-mh !  "  she  mumbled,  reflectively 
chewing  while  she  spoke ;  "  you  're  not  so  cocksure 
now,  as  you  were,  are  you  —  not  quite  so  certain 
about  yourself,  eh  ?  Say ;  —  look  at  here :  what  was 
it  you  and  that  young  cub  had  all  figured  out?  Tell 
me ;  I  'd  like  to  be  in  on  the  j  oke."  Mrs.  Pinchin 
licked  her  finger  tips  again,  and  grinned  at  Corrie 
almost  good  naturedly. 

303 


CORRIE  WHO? 

But  Corrie  only  shuddered  a  little,  and  made  no 
effort  to  reply. 

"  Hunh !  Well,  you  need  n't  bother  to  answer  if 
you  don't  feel  like  it.  A  nice  mess  you  'd  have  made 
of  it,  too,  if  I  'd  let  you  go  on.  But  I  was  n't  going 
to  let  you  —  well,  I  guess  not.  I  've  just  been  wait 
ing  for  a  good,  solid  chance  like  this  to  put  a  stop 
to  it.  And  I  think  I  have,  have  n't  I?  "  she  asked  with 
a  quick  side  look  at  the  cringing  girl.  "  Well,  any 
way,  I  was  n't  so  simple  that  I  'd  let  you  go  on  willy 
nilly  without  saying  something.  No,  not  after  all 
the  years  I  've  spent  in  trying  to  hide  it  from  you  — 
I  mean,  trying  to  save  you  from  it,"  Mrs.  Pinchin 
added,  correcting  herself.  "  Why,  look  at  here,"  she 
demanded  hotly ;  "  do  you  know  where  you  'd  be  if 
I  was  n't  kind  to  you,  and  ready  to  put  myself  to 
a  lot  of  bother  for  your  sake?  Do  you  know  where, 
you  ungrateful,  deceitful  child  ?  You  'd  be  down  in 
the  kitchen  washing  dishes  with  the  servants.  That 's 
where  you  'd  be,  do  you  hear?  " 

Corrie  looked  up  at  her  sadly.  "  Possibly ;  you 
seem  to  know,  Mrs.  Pinchin.  But  I  'm  not  going  to 
ask  your  kindness  much  longer.  The  other  night  I 
told  you  I  'd  stay  here  until  I  learned  who  I  am.  My 
mind  has  changed  since  then.  I  'm  going  away  as 
soon  as  I  can.  You  won't  be  bothered  with  me  any 
more." 

Mrs.  Pinchin  threw  back  her  head,  and  look 
ing  at  Corrie  through  half-closed  eyes,  smiled 
mockingly. 

"  Huh !  huh !  —  So  you  still  think  he  '11  take  you. 
304 


KIDNAPPED  FROM  MRS.  PINCHIN'S 

Make  up  your  mind  once  and  for  all  that  he  won't. 
No,  —  I  '11  see  to  that  myself." 

"  Yes,  I  think  you  would,  Mrs.  Pinchin,"  answered 
Corrie,  slowly,  after  a  look  at  the  contemptuous, 
sneering  face.  "  But  I  've  given  up  all  thought  of 
that  now.  I  shall  never  see  him  after  I  leave  here  — 
oh!  —  But  I  'm  going  to  leave  this  house,  anyway." 

"  You  're  going  to  leave?  Well,  we  '11  see  about 
that,  too.  There  '11  be  plenty  of  time  —  plenty  of 
time.  And  now  that  we  understand  each  other,  you 
come  back  to  your  chair  and  sit  down.  I  want  this 
sewing  finished  —  and  no  more  words  about  it, 
either."  She  stamped  her  way  across  the  room  again, 
and  picked  up  the  plum-colored  brocade.  "  Here, 
begin  on  this,"  she  ordered  gruffly ;  "  I  '11  need  to 
wear  it  Sunday  night." 

All  thought  of  rebellion  had  died  in  Corrie's  breast. 
She  came  listlessly  at  Mrs.  Pinchin's  bidding,  and 
took  the  dress  in  her  hand. 

"  Sit  down,  now,"  commanded  Mrs.  Pinchin,  and 
Corrie  sat  down.  "  You  understand  about  the  collar 
—  panne  velvet,  and  the  coffee-o-lay  ruching.  The 
velvet 's  in  the  work-basket.  Now,  don't  you  dawdle 
over  it,  either,  because  I  Ve  got  to  have  it  to  wear." 

With  this  admonition  Mrs.  Pinchin  helped  herself 
to  another  bon-bon,  glared  at  Corrie,  as  if  about  to 
say  something  more,  and,  changing  her  mind,  thumped 
out  of  the  room  with  her  face  set  in  a  sour,  mocking 
leer. 

Corrie  picked  up  a  pair  of  scissors  from  the  work- 
basket.  She  dragged  Mrs.  Pinchin's  plum  brocade 
20  305 


CORRIE  WHO? 

across  her  knees,  and  began  to  work,  only  half  con 
scious  of  what  she  was  doing.  The  scissors,  held 
clumsily  in  clumsy,  shaking  fingers,  worked  blindly 
on,  and  reaching  the  collar,  cut  a  long  gash  in  Mrs. 
Pinchin's  brocade.  Perhaps  it  was  just  as  well  the 
exacting  taskmaster  was  not  there  to  behold  this 
havoc.  Corrie  stared  at  the  slit  dumbly,  and  then 
went  on.  Work  is  a  sovereign  balm  for  trouble;  yet 
there  was  no  balm  in  that  work  of  hers.  She  worked 
dully,  and  without  consciousness  of  what  her  fingers 
did,  her  mind  in  despair.  Mrs.  Pinchin's  plum-col 
ored  brocade  was  little  improved  by  that  half-hour's 
effort. 

"  Miss  Cor-r-rie!  —  are  ye  in  there?  " 
Maggie's  head  obtruded  itself  cautiously  inside  the 
door ;  her  voice  was  lowered  to  a  whisper.  "  Where  's 
she?  "  asked  Maggie,  a  warning  finger  on  her  lip, 
clearly  with  Mrs.  Pinchin  in  mind.  "  Quick !  — 
there  '11  be  a  lady  at  the  door  askin'  for  ye !  " 

A  lady  at  the  door!  Her  mind,  in  its  submerged 
dullness,  could  call  to  memory  no  acquaintance  likely 
to  ask  for  her  at  Mrs.  Pinchin's.  Who  was  it  ?  Mag 
gie,  apparently  of  no  wish  to  encounter  her  formi 
dable  mistress,  had  withdrawn  her  head  as  abruptly  as 
she  had  intruded  it.  Corrie  arose  from  her  chair 
listlessly.  Then  there  dawned  on  her  who  that  caller 
must  be !  It  was  Mrs.  Geikie  !  What  had  happened 
to  bring  her  to  Mrs.  Pinchin's?  Nothing  —  unless 
it  were  vital  enough  to  overcome  her  established  dis 
trust  and  aversion  of  the  woman  she  had  never  seen. 
Corrie  flew  down  the  stairs! 

306 


KIDNAPPED  FROM  MRS.  PINCfflN'S 

But  it  was  not  Mrs.  Geikie.  The  front  door  stood 
open,  and  there  was  Virgie  Deane ! 

The  instant  she  saw  Corrie,  she  urged  her,  with  a 
wild  beckoning,  to  hurry  faster.  Corrie  hurried. 
Through  the  open  door  she  could  see  the  Deane 
brougham  at  the  curb,  its  footman  standing  beside 
it,  and  trying,  without  a  great  degree  of  success,  to 
compose  his  wondering  features  into  their  usual  air 
of  solemnity.  Nor  could  one  dispute  his  right  to 
amazement,  since  his  mistress,  wildly  urging  haste, 
was  dancing  from  one  foot  to  the  other  in  excitement. 

"  Hurry !  hurry !  "  called  Miss  Deane,  in  a  stage 
whisper.  Without  wasting  any  time  in  salutations, 
she  grasped  Corrie  by  the  arm.  "  You  've  got  to 
come  with  me ;  Phil 's  nearly  frantic.  I  did  this  for 
him,  but  I  'm  nearly  scared  out  of  my  senses.  Come 
along  —  hurry !  hurry !  She  '11  catch  us  if  you 
don't." 

Corrie  gaped  at  her  in  astonishment.  Why  had 
they  sent  for  her?  She  had  forgotten  her  cry  over 
the  telephone  that  she  was  watched. 

Miss  Deane,  in  her  excitement,  ran  to  the  steps 
and  then  ran  back. 

"Aren't  you  coming?  They're  all  waiting  for 
you,  I  tell  you !  Phil  said  to  tell  you  he  'd  found  out 
—  he  'd  found  out  something  —  I  don't  know  what 
it  is.  You  've  got  to  come !  Oh,  what  if  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin  caught  me !  "  cried  the  girl,  and  began  hopping 
from  one  foot  to  the  other  again. 

"  But  I  can't.  I  can't  get  out !  "  gasped  Corrie,  in 
fected  with  excitement  too.  "  They  've  gone  and  — 

307 


CORRIE  WHO? 

why  —  why,  they  've  locked  up  my  hat  and  coat.     I 
can't  get  my  things !  " 

Miss  Deane  overlooked  this  astonishing  admission, 
as  if  it  were  an  everyday  occurrence  to  have  one's 
things  locked  up. 

"  Never  mind  them.  Come  as  you  are !  Come 
along !  "  She  seized  Corrie  by  the  hand,  and  tried 
to  drag  her  down  the  steps.  "  Oh !  —  she  '11  catch 
us,  I  'm  sure !  " 

Corrie  suffered  herself  to  be  led  down  to  the 
brougham,  bareheaded  and  without  a  coat.  "  Back 
to  Mrs.  Geikie's,  Scanlon !  "  breathlessly  cried  Miss 
Deane  to  the  footman,  and  pushed  Corrie  headlong 
into  the  carriage.  "  Hurry,  Scanlon !  "  she  ordered, 
and  snatched  the  door  out  of  the  man's  hand. 
"  Mercy !  —  has  he  gone  to  sleep  ?  " 

But  the  footman,  with  an  amazed  grin,  was  really 
hurrying.  "  Oh !  look  there !  I  told  you  they  'd 
follow  us !  " 

Miss  Deane,  quite  pale  and  overcome,  leaned  back 
among  the  cushions.  Corrie  looked,  and,  at  the  head 
of  the  steps,  stood  Miss  Freedlark,  her  mouth  opened, 
and  her  eyes  fixed  stupidly  on  the  brougham. 

There  was  a  clatter  of  iron  shoes  on  the  pavement ; 
the  carriage  rolled  away  from  the  curb.  Gathering 
himself  together,  the  horse  caught  his  gait,  and  went 
hacking  along  the  asphalt. 

"  Miss  Robinson  !    wait !    wait  !  " 

Miss  Deane  folded  her  hands  together,  and  looked 
at  Corrie  helplessly.  "  Did  n't  I  tell  you  ?  "  she  cried 
under  her  breath. 

308 


KIDNAPPED  FROM  MRS.  PINCHIN'S 

"  Oh,  wait  —  wait !  You  there !  Oh,  coachman ! 
coachman ! " 

The  horse  skipped  in  his  stride,  and  settled  back, 
as  he  felt  the  drag  on  his  bit.  Miss  Deane  sat  up 
right,  looked  at  Corrie,  and  then  thrust  her  head  out 
of  the  window. 

"  Drive  on !  Drive  on,  Higgs !  "  she  called ;  and 
Higgs  drove  on,  as  ordered.  Then,  had  one  looked 
down  Mrs.  Pinchin's  street  at  that  particular  hour 
in  the  morning,  one  would  have  been  treated  to  the 
spectacle  of  a  tall,  angular  female  panting  madly 
after  a  brougham,  and  screaming  to  it  to  stop,  when 
the  brougham  displayed  not  even  the  slightest  indica 
tion  of  stopping.  But  half  a  block  from  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin's,  Miss  Freedlark  gave  up  the  hopeless  pursuit, 
and  then  aware,  for  the  first  time,  of  the  many  heads 
stuck  out  of  neighboring  windows,  of  the  many  pedes 
trians  turning  around  to  stare  at  her,  of  the  many 
nursemaids,  market-boys,  icemen  and  other  wayfarers, 
all  grinning  at  the  figure  she  made,  she  turned  and 
hurried  back  to  Mrs.  Pinchin's. 

"  Well !  "  exclaimed  Miss  Deane,  regaining  her 
breath ;  "  I  '11  know  myself  if  I  ever  do  a  thing  like 
this  for  Phil  again !  Mother  would  n't  let  me  out  of 
her  sight  for  a  year  if  she  heard  of  it.  Mercy !  did 
you  see  that  woman  gallop  when  she  came  after  us? 
She  was  screaming,  as  if  we  'd  run  off  with  the  family 
plate!" 

Miss  Deane  burst  into  a  little  gale  of  merriment  at 
the  memory.  "  But  what  a  lark !  Just  think  of  it ! 
Why,  it  reads  precisely  like  the  books  that  Tillie,  my 


CORRIE  WHO? 

maid,  is  always  ruining  her  eyes  over.  '  Lord  Valde- 
mont  seized  the  unresisting  form  of  the  heiress  in 
his  arms,  and  sprang  lightly  into  the  stirrup,' '; 
cried  the  girl,  with  another  peal  of  laughter,  and  then 
stole  a  glance  at  Corrie. 

"  Please  don't.  It 's  aU  right,  I  'm  sure.  It 's  all 
going  to  come  out  splendidly  in  the  end." 

Corrie  shook  her  head,  and  tried  with  a  little  better 
success  to  smile.  "  It  is  n't  that,  Miss  Deane.  I 
wonder  what  I  shall  say  to  Mrs.  Pinchin  when  I  go 
back  to  her,  after  this  —  after  running  away  as  I 
did.  Or,  rather,  I  'm  wondering  what  she  '11  say  to 
me." 

Miss  Deane  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  soberly. 
"  Is  n't  she  some  sort  of  a  relative  of  yours?  " 

Corrie  nodded  dispiritedly.  "  That 's  what  we  're 
trying  to  find  out."  She  looked  down  at  her  hands, 
nervously  twining  and  untwining  her  fingers.  "  Some 
thing  has  happened  —  I  've  found  out  something  that 
makes  me  think  so.  I  'm  afraid  she  is,"  faltered 
Corrie  in  a  troubled  voice. 

The  other  girl,  who  never  in  her  life  had  known 
a  moment's  worry,  much  less  a  trouble  like  this,  gazed 
at  her  sympathetically.  "  Why  do  you  care,  any 
way?  "  cried  Miss  Deane,  with  all  the  exuberant  phi 
losophy  characteristic  of  one  that  has  never  known  a 
care.  "  I  would  n't  let  her  bother  me,  whoever  she  is. 
Phil  does  n't  care,  —  and,"  added  Miss  Deane,  as  if 
the  fact  itself  were  convincing ,  "  well,  if  he  does  n't, 
I  don't  see  why  you  should." 

A  little  touch  of  pain  stabbed  Corrie's  heart.  She 
310 


KIDNAPPED  FROM  MRS.  PINCHIN'S 

wondered,  as  she  listened  to  the  gay,  buoyant  girl 
beside  her,  what  the  same  girl  would  think  were  she 
to  understand  all  the  conditions  —  above  all,  the  cir 
cumstance  that  Corrie  knew  nothing  about  herself. 
But  Miss  Deane,  unaware  of  the  belittling  thoughts 
that  flocked  through  Corrie's  mind,  was  rattling 
blithely  on. 

"  You  should  have  seen  Phil's  face  when  I  got  there. 
Mother  had  sent  me  with  a  book  she  'd  promised  Mrs. 
Geikie,  and  when  I  drove  up,  Phil  had  just  hurled  him 
self  down  the  steps.  He  had  his  hat  jammed  down 
on  his  head,  and  I  think  he  fully  intended  to  descend 
on  Mrs.  Pinchin's,  horse,  foot,  and  artillery.  Yes! 
as  if  he  fully  meant  to  sack  and  pillage  it  and  let 
no  soul  escape  alive."  She  twinkled  with  merriment 
again  at  the  memory.  "  Phil,  all  in  a  breath,  told 
me  what  had  happened  —  about  their  watching  you, 
I  mean ;  and  he  declared  —  no,  that  is  n't  it ;  —  he 
declaimed  —  that 's  the  very  word!  He  declaimed 
—  right  like  this :  '  I  'm  going  to  see  her  if  I  have 
to  tear  down  Mrs.  Pinchin's  door ! '  "  To  make  her 
mimicry  more  impressive,  Miss  Deane  struck  an  atti 
tude,  one  hand  in  the  air,  the  other  thrust  into  the 
breast  of  her  smart  little  j  acket.  "  I  told  him  to 
keep  still,  and  not  be  such  a  ninny.  Phil  is  such  a 
silly  old  goose  when  he  gets  excited.  Now  when  I 
suggested  I  'd  go  after  you  myself  —  you  know,  it  Js 
all  my  own  idea  —  why,  Phil  nearly  lost  his  reason. 
He  told  me  if  I  only  would,  he  'd  love  me  forever. 
Hmph !  "  scoffed  Miss  Deane,  disdainfully ;  "  he  can 
Jceep  his  love  until  I  ask  for  it.  But,  anyway,  that 's 

311 


CORRIE  WHO? 

how  I  came  to  abduct  you,  and  if  mother  ever  finds 
out  —  well!" 

In  this  strain  she  kept  on  until  the  journey's  end, 
losing  no  chance  to  rouse  Corrie  from  her  fit  of  the 
doleful  dumps.  They  rolled  down  through  the  Park 
along  the  drives  arched  by  the  tall  trees  j  ust  bursting 
into  green,  reached  Fifty-ninth  Street,  and  rumbled 
across  the  car  tracks  to  the  smooth  asphalt  of  Fifth 
Avenue.  It  was  too  early  for  the  usual  rout  of  car 
riages,  delivery  wagons,  and  trucks  that  make  of 
the  avenue  the  most  democratic  boulevard  in  the 
world;  they  bowled  southward  unimpeded;  crossed 
the  barrier  of  Forty-second  Street,  sped  down  Mur 
ray  Hill,  and  ch'cked  away  along  the  level,  and,  at 
the  Twenty-third  Street  crossing,  were  held  up  only 
long  enough  to  let  a  rush  of  early  morning  shoppers 
skip  from  curb  to  curb.  Then  they  went  on  again, 
down  through  the  defile  of  tall  office  buildings  to  the 
sleepy  quiet  of  the  lower  avenue,  where,  at  Ninth 
Street,  they  turned  west  along  the  trail  of  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin's  Monday  morning  pilgrimage  to  the  mean 
streets  that  fringe  Greenwich  Village.  Here  was  the 
j  ourney's  end ;  and  as  Corrie  looked  up  and  saw  Mr. 
Biggamore's  house  in  sight,  her  heart  leaped  in  her 
throat,  beat  thickly,  and  then  subsided,  a  leaden 
weight  in  her  breast. 

Young  Mr.  Geikie,  apparently,  had  passed  an 
anxious  hour.  At  the  first  sound  of  wheels  in  the 
street,  he  looked  out,  and  then  came  running  down 
to  the  sidewalk.  Scanlon  had  sprung  down  from  the 
box  as  the  brougham  turned  in  at  the  curb,  but  his 

312 


KIDNAPPED  FROM  MRS.  PINCHIN'S 

services  were  not  required.  Phil,  already,  had  thrown 
open  the  carriage  door. 

"  Why  were  you  so  long?  I  thought  something 
had  happened !  "  he  exclaimed.  Then  he  saw  that 
Corrie  was  without  hat  or  coat.  "  Something  has 
happened,  or  you  would  n't  have  taken  so  long ! " 

"  Well,  I  like  that !  "  retorted  Miss  Deane.  "  I  've 
been  gone  hardly  an  hour.  You  ought  to  be  glad  to 
see  us  alive,  instead  of  complaining  about  the  time. 
No  —  I'm  not  coming  in  now!  I  won't,  —  just  to 
spite  you.  Besides,"  added  Miss  Deane,  staring  rue 
fully  at  the  carriage  clock,  "  mother  said  she  'd  meet 
me  at  Aunt  Olivia's  at  quarter  of  ten.  I  hope  she 
will  —  it 's  only  eleven  now.  Good-bye !  Tell  Scan- 
Ion  where  to  drive,  Phil.  Good-bye,  and  good 
luck!'' 

The  two  walked  up  the  steps  together,  Corrie  silent 
and  downcast,  Phil  gravely  watching  her.  In  the 
hall  he  closed  the  door  behind  him,  halted  irreso 
lutely,  and  then  led  her  into  the  darkened  drawing- 
room. 

"  Before  we  go  up  to  mother's  room,"  he  said, 
standing  before  her,  "  tell  me  what  has  happened." 

Corrie  told  him.  She  withheld  nothing;  no  detail 
of  the  night  and  morning's  happening  kept  from  him 
—  the  watch  that  had  been  set  on  her,  Mrs.  Pinchin's 
departure  with  the  bandbox,  her  return  and  the  mid 
night  alarm  of  Mrs.  Pinchin  coming  like  a  thief  to 
prowl  in  the  dark  of  the  storeroom.  All  this  she 
recounted,  while  he  listened,  eager  to  hear  every  de 
tail.  The  girl  told  him  of  Mrs.  Pinchin's  whispered 

313 


CORRIE  WHO? 

sobbing,  of  her  terrible  passion  of  grief  or  trepida 
tion,  or  whatever  else  it  was,  and  there  he  nodded. 

"  Yes !  I  don't  wonder  at  it.  If  I  were  she,  I  'd  be 
pretty  badly  frightened  myself  —  that  is  if  what  I 
suspect  is  true.  You  remember  the  advertisement? 
Well,  I  think  somebody  .else  besides  you  and  me  is 
on  Mrs.  Pinchin's  trail !  " 

Corrie  raised  her  eyes  dully.    "  Why  ?  " 

"  Because  I  've  had  an  answer  to  the  letter  I  wrote. 
It  was  a  man  who  sent  it;  I  can  tell  that  from  the 
handwriting,  though  it  was  plainly  disguised.  Who 
ever  the  man  is,  he  's  up  to  something  serious.  I 
can't  say  what,  but  it 's  something  more  than  an 
ordinary  business  matter.  He  wrote  me  savagely  to 
keep  my  hands  out  of  the  affair.  It  was  a  plain  warn 
ing  that  if  I  did  n't,  I  would  stir  up  a  mess  that  would 
make  me  sorry  for  interfering.  That 's  all  there 
was;  now  tell  me  what  else  happened." 

Corrie  went  on  with  her  tale.  There  was  nothing 
left  out  —  not  even  the  shaming  detail  of  the  threat 
Mrs.  Pinchin  had  used  as  a  tool  to  shock  her  into  sub 
mission.  She  repeated  to  him  that  morning's  en 
counter  over  the  sewing,  and  how  she  had  pleaded, 
ready  to  do  anything  if  Mrs.  Pinchin  would  only 
promise  not  to  go  to  him  with  her  impressive 
secret. 

"  Phil,  Mrs.  Pinchin  knows  who  I  am.  She  has 
admitted  it  at  last,  and  it 's  —  Phil,  can't  you  see?  — 
it 's  something  dreadful.  I  won't  try  to  hide  it  from 
you  —  I  mean,  I  won't  try  to  keep  you  from  knowing 
that  it  is  dreadful.  But,  Phil  —  oh,  Phil,  Phil !  —  I 

314 


KIDNAPPED  FROM  MRS.  PINCHIN'S 

don't  want  you  to  know  what  it  is.     I  can't  bear  to 
think  of  you  hearing  it  all.     Can't  you  see  why?  " 

He  smiled,  and  shook  his  head  reassuringly.  "  It 
does  n't  make  any  difference  —  don't  worry  over  it, 
Corrie.  I  don't  even  want  to  know.  Besides,  I  'm 
sure  who  you  are,  anyway." 

She  waited  patiently,  little  hope  in  her  downcast 
eyes. 

"  No,  Phil ;  you  don't  know.  It 's  all  a  mistake. 
You  and  your  mother  have  been  deluded  into  hoping 
it  was  true,  until  you  have  believed  it.  But  it  is  n't, 
and,  Phil,  you  understand,  don't  you,  why  I  can't 
see  you  again.  Don't  you  really  see  how  it  is? 
Everyone  knows  it  is  n't  possible,  —  or  right,  Phil. 
Even  Mrs.  Pinchin  says  so." 

He  interrupted  her  quietly.  "  Corrie,  you  must  n't 
talk  like  that.  It 's  absurd.  Do  you  or  I  care  what 
Mrs.  Pinchin  says?" 

"  No,  Phil  —  and  I  would  not  have  cared  unless 
your  mother  had  made  me  understand  the  same  thing, 
too." 

He  stared  at  her  bewilderedly,  as  if  wondering 
what  she  meant.  Corrie  enlightened  him. 

"  Yesterday,  Phil,  your  mother  thought  —  and  I 
thought  so,  too  —  that  I  was  someone  —  perhaps 
someone  with  a  name  and  a  family.  But  from  what 
Mrs.  Pinchin  has  said  —  Phil,  she  never  would  have 
dared  unless  she  knew  f  —  why,  I  have  been  made  to 
learn  now,  that  I  'm  just  plain  Corrie  —  just  Corrie 
and  nothing  else.  Don't  you  understand  why  I  can't 
see  you  any  more  ?  " 

315 


CORRIE  WHO? 

He  stirred  uneasily.  "  Wait !  —  I  don't  know  what 
mother  has  said  to  you ;  she  won't  tell  me.  Nor  will 
Uncle  Phil,  though  I  've  a  pretty  clear  notion  what 
it  is.  I  suppose  it  was  what  I  've  been  trying  to  keep 
from  you  until  I  was  sure." 

"About  the  Tollabees?"  said  Corrie,  hopelessly; 
"  yes,  that  was  it.  But  it  is  all  a  mistake,  Phil,"  she 
added,  returning  to  the  same,  dreary  phrase. 

"  Mistake  or  not  —  Corrie,  listen  to  me !  "  He 
came  close  to  her.  One  hand  held  her  by  the  shoulder, 
and  she  stood  without  trying  to  free  herself.  "  Look 
up  at  me !  "  he  commanded  determinedly.  "  Now 
hear  what  I  have  to  say:  you  are  going  up  to  see 
mother ;  she  's  waiting  to  say  something  to  you.  I 
don't  know  what  it  is,  but  they  've  admitted  —  she 
and  Uncle  Phil  —  that  they  have  proof  who  you  are. 
As  I  've  said,  they  won't  talk  to  me  about  it,  but  from 
their  admissions,  I  'm  almost  certain  you  're  Dorothy 
Tollabee.  Something  turned  up  last  night  that  makes 
me  sure.  Uncle  Phil  came  in  late,  and  he  and  mother 
sat  whispering  together  for  hours.  Afterward,  Uncle 
Phil  went  up  to  his  room,  and  rummaged  around  a 
while.  I  could  hear  him  pulling  out  the  drawers  of 
his  desk,  and  poking  among  the  boxes  of  papers  he 
has  in  his  closet,  and  then  he  came  down  again.  He 
had  a  letter  in  his  hand,  and  he  gave  it  to  mother 
without  saying  anything.  She  read  it  through,  and 
then  looked  up  at  him  and  nodded.  I  could  hear  her 
say  to  him :  "  Yes,  —  that 's  who  she  is.  I  don't 
think  there  's  a  doubt  left."  Phil  paused,  and  his 
hand  tightened  on  Corrie's  arm. 

316 


KIDNAPPED  FROM  MRS.  PINCHIN'S 

"  Look  up  at  me  now,"  he  said,  and  held  her  so 
that  he  could  see  her  face.  "  Corrie  —  whoever  you 
are !  —  whatever  they've  found  out !  —  Corrie,  dear, 
it  does  n't  make  any  difference  to  me.  I  won't  let  you 
go,  no  matter  what  happens." 

She  shook  her  head  dolefully.  "  But  you  '11  have 
to,  Phil,"  she  answered,  trying  to  smile  at  him  in  her 
woe.  "  What  does  it  matter  ?  You  '11  forget  about 
it  in  a  little  while,  won't  you?  We  haven't  known 
each  other  long  —  think  how  quick  it  has  all  been. 
You  must  see  how  it  is,  Phil  —  this  is  the  last  time 


now 


"  I  mean  it.  What  happens  will  make  no  differ 
ence,"  he  repeated,  shaking  his  head  gently,  and  smil 
ing  down  at  her ;  "  don't  you  see  why  I  mean  it?  "  he 
whispered. 

He  was  very  close,  his  eyes  fastened  on  hers,  and  as 
full  with  feeling  as  they  had  been  during  the  moment 
in  the  Park.  The  grave  look  in  their  depths  faded 
slowly,  warming  with  another  light,  and  in  answer  to 
its  softness,  the  girl  felt  her  heart  flutter  in  her 
breast.  Slowly  his  hand  dropped  from  her  shoulder, 
and  unresisting,  she  let  him  draw  her  to  him.  It  was 
the  last  time  now!  It  was  the  parting!  Neither  he 
nor  any  other  man  should  ever  again  hold  her  in  his 
arms.  This  time  she  made  no  struggle  against  it. 
For  what  did  it  matter?  There  never  again  would 
be  a  time  when  she  would  have  more  than  the  memory 
of  it  and  the  pain  the  memory  would  bring.  But 

now He  pressed  back  her  head,  and  already  she 

felt  his  cheek  brush  hers.  She  clung  to  him,  weak, 

317 


CORRIE  WHO? 

desperate,  fearful  at  the  thought  of  losing  her  love. 
And  then  came  the  blinding,  withering  thought 
again  —  the  sense  of  her  surrender,  and  what  it 
meant  to  surrender  so. 

"  NO  —  don't !  don't !  —  for  my  sake!  "  she  cried 
fiercely ;  "  let  me  go !  " 

She  struggled,  but  his  clasp  grew  tighter  about  her 
form. 

"  Listen !  "  he  whispered ;  "  you  know  what  I  've 
told  you  —  that  you  are  mine,  no  matter  what  hap 
pens.  Look  up  at  me !  Look  up,  Corrie !  " 

Then  she  looked  up,  as  he  bade  her.  Her  arms 
reached  out,  and  she  clung  to  him,  reckless  of  every 
thing  —  desperately  forgetting  even  the  pain  it  would 
cost  her,  when  only  the  memory  was  left.  "  Phil ! 

—  Phil !  —  boy !    boy !  "    she    murmured,    and    her 
lips  touched  his,  all  her  love  given  to  him  in  that 
one  first  —  and  last  —  signal  of  her  longing.    "  Phil 

—  good-bye!  " 

She  freed  herself,  and  drew  back  from  him  quietly. 
"  Good-bye,  Phil !  "  Corrie  whispered  again ;  "  you 
see  it  must  be  that.  Now,  take  me  to  your 
mother." 

He  smiled  at  her  again,  lightly  and  confidently. 
"  Not  good-bye,  because  you  're  mine  now !  " 

If  Mrs.  Geikie  had  any  suspicion  of  what  had  hap 
pened  in  the  room,  below,  her  face  gave  no  hint  of  it. 
She  arose  from  her  seat  by  the  window  when  her  son 
knocked,  and  came  forward,  her  hand  outstretched, 
and  a  kindly  smile  on  her  lips  for  Corrie.  Perhaps 
the  faintest  bewilderment  showed  in  her  face  when  she 

318 


KIDNAPPED  FROM  MRS.  PINCHIN'S 

saw  Corrie  was  without  either  hat  or  jacket;  Phil 
laughed  as  he  pinched  his  mother's  cheek. 

"  Virgie  and  I  abducted  her,  mother,"  he  chuckled ; 
and  then  explained  himself  to  the  wondering  Mrs. 
Geikie. 

"  Virgie  did  that !  "  she  exclaimed  in  a  shocked  voice 
that  showed  no  inclination  to  join  in  her  son's  merri 
ment. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,  too,"  she  demanded,  in 
amazement,  "  that  Mrs.  Pinchin  held  Miss  Robinson 
a  prisoner?  I  can't  imagine  such  a  thing.  My 
dear,"  she  cried,  turning  to  Corrie,  "  will  you  tell  me 
what  they  have  been  doing  to  you  in  that  house?  " 

Corrie  told  her  briefly.  "  It  was  n't  really  so  very 
dreadful,"  she  said,  with  a  wistful  little  smile ;  "  I 
think  I  must  have  alarmed  your  son  by  what  I  told 
him  over  the  telephone.  But  I  was  nervous  and  ex 
cited,  and  I  think  I  exaggerated.  Mrs.  Pinchin 
had  hired  a  woman  to  watch  me  —  you  see,  she  'd 
begun  to  suspect  what  I  was  doing.  In  fact,  I 
think  she  knew  fully  that  I  was  trying  again  to 
see  you,  though  I  can't  tell  you  where  she  found 
out,  unless  she  saw  me  coming  here,  yesterday  morn 
ing.  But  anyway,  she  had  this  woman  to  watch  me  — 
a  Miss  Freedlark ;  and  though  I  'd  suspected  before 
why  she  had  been  brought  into  the  house,  I  was  n't 
sure  until  your  son,  Mrs.  Geikie,  telephoned  me. 
Then  I  found  out  I  was  right  in  my  suspicions,  and 
it  upset  me.  But  that 's  all  it  was." 

"  All !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Geikie,  indignantly ;  "  I 
call  it  dreadful.  But  shameful  as  it  is,  Virgie  never 

319 


CORRIE  WHO? 

should  have  gone  to  that  house.  If  you  had  told  me, 
I  would  have  found  a  more  proper  way  of  reaching 
Miss  Robinson." 

"  Nonsense,  mother !  "  Phil  laughed  again ;  "  be 
sides,  it  was  the  only  way  we  could  set  Corrie  at 
liberty." 

His  mother  looked  at  him,  as  he  spoke  the  name, 
but  gave  no  other  sign  how  it  affected  her. 

"  Will  you  sit  here  by  me,  please,"  she  said,  draw 
ing  up  a  chair  for  Corrie.  "  Phil,  I  wish  you  would 
call  your  uncle." 

"  Yes,  mother !  "  Phil  departed,  and  Mrs.  Geikie 
turned  hastily  to  Corrie. 

"  My  dear,  I  must  say  something  to  you  that  I 
felt  a  delicacy  in  telling  before  my  son.  You 
remember  what  I  said  yesterday  about  the  Tollabees? 
Both  Mr.  Biggamore  and  I  thought  it  necessary  to 
tell  you  because  —  well,  Phil  virtually  compelled  it. 
You  know  he  is  frank  and  impulsive ;  we  realized  that, 
and  we  were  fearful  he  would  shock  you  by  blurting 
out  the  truth.  He  does  not  understand  how  serious 
a  condition  it  is.  I  believe  he  regards  it  all  as  sort 
of  an  adventure,  but,  fortunately  —  my  dear,"  said 
Mrs.  Geikie,  still  more  hurriedly,  as  she  heard  Phil 
and  Mr.  Biggamore  coming  along  the  hall ;  "  I  have 
no  time  to  say  any  more.  But  remember,  I  have  a 
sincere  and  natural  interest  in  you  now.  Mr.  Bigga 
more  will  tell  you  why.  You  will  let  me  be  your 
friend,  won't  you?  No,  don't  try  to  say  anything 
yet.  You  must  wait ;  he  will  tell  you." 

Naturally  the  question  that  had  come  leaping  to 
320 


KIDNAPPED  FROM  MRS.  PINCHIN'S 

Corrie's  lips  was  the  one  she  had  asked  so  often  —  of 
herself,  of  Mrs.  Pinchin,  Miss  Maria,  and  even  of 
these  strangers.  But  Mrs.  Geikie  had  turned  away, 
and  now  was  staring  thoughtfully  through  the 
window. 

"  Good  morning,  Miss  Robinson."  Mr.  Bigga- 
more,  visibly  ruffled,  had  edged  into  the  room,  his  eye 
fixed  on  his  nephew  in  a  kind  of  bumptious  indig 
nation.  "  See  here,  sir !  "  he  cried,  suddenly  boil 
ing  over,  and  wagging  his  finger  wrathfully ;  "  did  n't 
I  warn  you  not  to  interfere?  " 

Phil  smiled  at  him  unaffectedly.  "  Uncle,  if  you  '11 
tell  me  what  you  are  talking  about,  I  '11  have  a  bet 
ter  chance  to  answer  that  question.  What 's  hap 
pened?  " 

Mr.  Biggamore  danced  up  and  down  before  him. 
"Happened?  Happened?  Great  deal's  happened! 
Stop  laughing  at  me  like  that;  I  won't  have  it. 
Stop  it,  I  say.  Now  what  do  you  mean  by  an 
swering  that  advertisement?  Speak  up!  Tell  me  at 
once !  " 

Mr.  Biggamore's  hand  reached  for  his  wisp  of  hair, 
but  at  his  nephew's  start  of  astonishment  he  paused, 
and  scowled  at  him  frankly. 

"  Yes !  "  spluttered  Mr.  Biggamore.  "  Who  gave 
you  leave  to  answer  my  advertisement?  " 

Both  Phil  and  Corrie  stared  in  open  astonishment. 

"  Uncle  Phil,  was  that  your  advertisement  ?  Was  it 
really  yours  ?  Well,  I  never !  " 

"  Mr.  Biggamore !  "  exclaimed  Corrie. 

"  Yes,  I  put  it  in.  I  did  it  myself.  What 's  that 
21  321 


CORRIE  WHO? 

to  you,  sir?  How  dared  you  answer  my  advertise 
ment  without  my  permission?  " 

Phil  felt  no  desire  to  laugh  at  the  absurdity.  He 
looked  at  his  uncle  thoughtfully,  and  then  at  Corrie. 
"  It  may  sound  almost  like  a  j  oke,  sir,"  he  answered 
quietly ;  "  but  I  wanted  to  find  out  about  Corrie. 
The  advertisement  seemed  to  be  a  clue.  I  wished  to 
find  the  Tollabees  as  well  as  you !  " 

"  Hey  ?  "  It  was  Mr.  Biggamore's  turn  on  hearing 
this  to  look  startled,  too.  He  glanced  nervously  at 
Corrie,  shifted  his  eyes,  and  then  seemed  to  remember 
that  she  had  been  informed  already  of  her  presumable 
connection  with  the  name.  "  Oh,  yes ;  to  be  sure !  " 
He  controlled  himself  and  glanced  uncomfortably  at 
his  sister.  "  Laura,  has  Miss  Robinson  been  told  — 
about  last  night,  too,  I  mean?  "  Mrs.  Geikie  silently 
shook  her  head,  and  once  more  Mr.  Biggamore  bit  his 
lip,  and  tugged  solemnly  at  his  forelock. 

Phil  waited  a  moment,  and  as  neither  his  uncle  or 
mother  seemed  inclined  to  go  on,  he  himself  spoke. 

"  Mother  —  and  you,  too,  Uncle  Phil :  don't  you 
think  you  should  stop  this  uncertainty,  and  tell  what 
you  've  found  out?  Uncle  Phil,"  he  asked,  turning  to 
him,  "  did  n't  Randolph  Tollabee  leave  a  daughter  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Mr.  Biggamore,  gloomily,  "  he 
did!" 

"  Very  well,  then ;  that 's  what  I  thought.  Now, 
why  hide  what  you  know  any  longer?  Why  not  come 
out  with  it,  and  tell  Corrie  all  there  is  to  know?  I 
don't  think  what  you  have  to  say  will  hurt  her." 

Mrs.  Geikie  moved  restlessly  in  her  seat  beside  the 
322 


KIDNAPPED  FROM  MRS.  PINCHIN'S 

window;  Mr.  Biggamore  pressed  his  lips  together. 
A  look  of  worry  had  come  into  his  eyes,  and  he 
glanced  at  Corrie  still  more  uneasily. 

"  Come,"  said  Phil,  urgently ;  "  is  it  about  the 
Tollabee  fortune?  I  suppose  you've  heard. that  all 
the  money  's  gone  —  that  she  's  a  pauper.  Is  that 
it  ?  What 's  the  odds  ?  Why  don't  you  own  up  to  it  ? 
I  don't  think  she  cares  a  snap  of  her  finger  about  the 
money." 

"  No  —  not  about  the  money !  "  whispered  Corrie, 
her  eyes  desperately  searching  Mr.  Biggamore's  face 
for  some  clue  to  the  truth. 

"  Is  that  it,  Uncle  Phil?  " 

Mr.  Biggamore  wet  his  lips.  "  No  —  that  is  not 
it,"  he  answered  painfully.  "  No  —  but  I  have  seen 
Miss  Margaret  Tollabee.  I  have  seen  her,  and  I  have 
also  seen  Randolph  Tollabee's  daughter.  It's  all 
been  a  sad  mistake.  Miss  Robinson  is  not  she,  at  all." 


323 


CHAPTER   XVI 

In  which  Mr.  Biggamore  nervously  mops  his  brow.  —  His 
story.  —  Miss  Margaret  Tollabee  and  the  missing  papers.  — 
Mrs.  Pinchin  identified.  —  Corrie  finds  her  mother.  — 
Phil's  delight  and  Mrs.  Geikie's  sorrow.  —  Stanwood 
Geikie's  elopement.  —  Corrie  also  finds  her  father. 

MISS  ROBINSON,"  said  Mr.  Biggamore,  gloom 
ily,  his  chubby  face  wrinkled  with  concern, 
"  I  need  scarcely  say  how  much  it  distresses  me  to 
have  to  tell  you  this.  The  fact  is,  my  dear  young  girl, 
we  have  been  led  into  a  natural,  though  extremely 
painful  error;  and  now  we  must  make  amends  for 
it  if  we  can.  But  I  've  learned  a  great  deal  about 
this  business.  Sit  down,  I  beg  of  you,  if  you  please ; 
and  let  me  tell  you  what  I  know.  You  may  as  well 
hear  it  all." 

He  pulled  out  his  handkerchief  as  he  spoke,  mop 
ping  his  forehead  nervously,  and  still  thoroughly  in 
censed  at  his  nephew,  as  he  showed,  by  the  way  he 
uncompromisingly  scowled  at  him.  "  Huh !  never 
heard  of  such  a  thing !  "  he  snorted  under  his  breath. 
"  The  idea !  Huh !  answering  my  advertisement !  " 

But  Phil  himself  was  too  disturbed  to  pay  any  at 
tention  to  the  little  gentleman's  bumptious  indigna 
tion.  A  good  deal  staggered  by  his  uncle's  revela 
tion,  he  stood  leaning  on  the  mantel-piece,  his 
troubled  eyes  intently  fixed  on  Corrie.  There  was  no 

324 


MR.  BIGGAMORE  MOPS  HIS  BROW 

thought  in  his  mind  but  for  her ;  yet  one  would  have 
had  difficulty  in  that  trying  moment  to  learn  from 
Corrie's  expression  just  how  the  revelation  had  af 
fected  her. 

She  sat  looking  at  Mr.  Biggamore  with  a  queer, 
crooked  little  smile.  Naturally  enough,  the  shock  had 
dazed  her,  though  the  blow  was  by  no  means  so  stun 
ning  as  it  would  have  been,  had  she  overlooked  the 
warning  in  Mrs.  Pinchin's  threat.  Still  she  felt  it 
bitterly,  no  matter  how  she  had  been  prepared;  and 
there  settled  on  her  mind,  after  the  first  moment  of 
dismay,  a  feeling  of  dull  and  hopeless  resignation.  It 
was  all  past  now  —  the  dream  and  its  appealing 
hopes  —  and  she  dared  not  look  at  Phil. 

Beside  the  window,  Mrs.  Geikie  still  sat  with  her 
eyes  fixed  thoughtfully  in  the  distance.  As  one  saw 
from  the  trouble  on  her  face,  she,  too,  blamed  herself 
for  Corrie's  new  grief;  and  Mr.  Biggamore,  after  a 
glance  at  her,  began  more  furiously  than  ever  to  mop 
his  forehead. 

"  Now,  Miss  Robinson,"  said  he,  darting  a  final 
glance  of  indignation  at  his  nephew ;  "  I  've  got  to 
explain  myself.  You  see,  we  ourselves  have  always 
wondered  what  had  become  of  the  Tollabee  child,  and 
when  you  told  about  yourself,  and  about  all  the  curi 
ous  happenings  at  Mrs.  Pinchin's,  we  naturally 
enough  jumped  to  the  most  natural  conclusion  in  the 
world.  Well,"  remarked  Mr.  Biggamore,  slowly  and 
with  impressive  regret ;  "  it  appears,  as  you  see,  that 
we  made  only  a  painful  blunder.  No,"  he  added  re 
flectively,  "  we  never  should  have  said  a  word  to  you 

325 


CORRIE  WHO? 

about  these  Tollabees  until  we  were  certain  of  our 
facts  —  not  a  single  word  —  not  a  single  thing,  my 
dear  young  girl.  I  shall  never  forgive  myself  for  it! 

"  But  you  see,"  he  continued  earnestly,  "  my 
sister  and  I  knew  you  suspected  some  connection  be 
tween  yourself  and  that  old  friend  of  ours,  Randolph 
Tollabee ;  so  there  was  n't  much  choice  left  to  us. 
We  had  to  set  you  on  your  guard  —  you  see  the 
force  of  it  now,  don't  you?  "  he  asked  awkwardly. 
"  At  all  events,  we  thought  it  best  to  let  you  know  we 
were  investigating,  and  we  also  wished  to  warn  you 
against  the  shock  of  too  great  a  disappointment. 
My  sister  here  —  I  think  she  spoke  to  you  about  it, 
yesterday?  "  Mr.  Biggamore  looked  at  Mrs.  Geikie, 
and  then  energetically  bobbed  his  head.  "  It  was  most 
unfortunate !  Most  unfortunate  —  but  necessary  !  " 
he  added  convincingly. 

"  Well,  I  put  in  the  advertisement,  and  yesterday  I 
got  an  answer  —  not  yours,  sir !  The  idea !  Impu 
dence  !  "  Mr.  Biggamore  got  up,  thrust  his  handker 
chief  into  his  coat-tails,  and  plumped  down  into  his 
chair  again.  "  As  I  say,  I  got  an  answer,  and  it  was 
from  Miss  Tollabee  herself.  She  wrote,  saying  that 
if  the  writer  of  the  advertisement  would  identify  him 
self,  she  would  consent  to  see  him.  So  I  sent  her  a 
letter  by  messenger.  She  lives  in  West  Tenth  Street, 
just  this  side  of  Greenwich  Avenue ;  and  an  hour  later 
I  got  her  reply,  appointing  the  hour  at  quarter  past 
eight  last  night.  Well,"  said  Mr.  Biggamore,  after 
pursing  up  his  lips,  his  face  turned  away  from  Corrie, 
"  I  went  up  to  the  house  —  she  's  been  living  there 

326 


MR.  BIGGAMORE  MOPS  HIS  BROW 

since  Randolph  Tollabee  died,  you  know  —  and  the 
long  and  short  of  it  is,  that  I  saw  her,  and  she  showed 
me  his  daughter." 

Corrie  listened  absorbed.  "  Did  you  see  her  — 
yourself,  Mr.  Biggamore?  And  there  can  be  no 
mistake  ?  " 

He  answered  gravely :  "  There  can  be  no  mistake. 
I  saw  her  myself.  I  would  not  be  so  sure  now,  unless 
I  had." 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  assented  Corrie,  dully. 
"  And,  of  course,  Mrs.  Pinchin  must  have  known  this 
when  she  warned  me."  She  sighed  gently,  her  queer, 
crooked  smile  still  unaltered.  "  Mr.  Biggamore, 
there 's  one  other  question :  did  Miss  Tollabee,  by 
any  chance,  know  of  me?  " 

The  little  old  gentleman,  without  removing  his  eyes 
from  her,  began  awkwardly  to  rub  his  chin ;  and  Mrs. 
Geikie,  in  her  seat  beside  the  window,  stirred  a  little, 
as  if  she,  too,  weighed  the  girl's  question  with  a 
knowledge  of  its  answer,  and  what  the  answer  would 
convey.  "  My  dear  young  lady,"  faltered  Mr.  Bigga 
more,  as  if  afraid  to  commit  himself  in  a  direct  reply, 
"  I  can't  answer  that  flatly.  You  see  —  why,  to  tell 
the  truth,  I  don't  know  whether  Miss  Tollabee  knows 
or  not.  The  fact  is,"  he  went  on  carefully,  "  we 
did  n't  get  down  to  the  point  of  talking  about  it. 
I  'd  chosen  a  pretty  trying  time  for  her,  I  found  out, 
to  probe  into  this  business.  You  '11  understand  me, 
when  I  tell  you  Tollabee's  daughter  is  in  a  serious 
condition.  Miss  Robinson,  she  's  not  expected  to  live 
but  a  few  days.  Mighty  embarrassing  to  me,  too. 

327 


CORRIE  WHO? 

I  wondered  what  Miss  Tollabee  would  think  of  it. 
Couldn't  be  helped,  though,"  muttered  Mr.  Bigga- 
more. 

"  Then  it 's  quite  hopeless,  is  n't  it  ?  "  asked  Cor- 
rie,  in  tired  tones ;  "  I  mean  trying  to  find  out  who 
I  am?" 

Mr.  Biggamore  got  up  and  looked  at  his  sister, 
and  then  at  Phil.  Then  he  jerked  his  head  at  the 
door  in  a  patent  invitation  for  Phil  to  clear  out. 
Phil  stared  at  him,  but  showed  no  sign  of  going ;  and 
once  more  Mr.  Biggamore  pursed  up  his  lips. 
"  Phil,"  he  said  slowly  and  with  an  impressive  mean 
ing,  "  I  have  something  to  say  to  Miss  Robinson. 
Will  you  be  good  enough  to  leave  us?  " 

Then  Phil  looked  at  Corrie,  and  still  looking  at 
her,  answered.  "  No,  uncle,"  he  said  slowly ;  "  I 
don't  wish  you  to  think  me  disrespectful,  sir;  but 
unless  Corrie  would  dislike  it,  I  'd  prefer  to  stay. 
You  see,  Uncle  Phil,  there  is  a  good  reason  I  should 
hear,  too,  what  you  have  to  tell.  I  think  so ;  that  is, 
if  Corrie  does  n't  mind." 

His  mother,  at  the  window,  did  not  move.  Her 
eyes  were  still  fastened  on  the  distance,  and  a  little 
quiver  of  pain  twitched  at  the  corner  of  her  mouth. 
Doubtless,  in  that  moment,  she  knew  that  the  am 
bitious  house  of  dreams  she  had  built  for  him  had 
fallen  in  a  ruin;  for  she  heard  now  that  he  chose 
to  build  for  himself.  "  Yes,  let  him  stay,  Philip," 
she  said  quietly ;  "  I  think  he  should  hear  it,  too. 
It  is  best,  perhaps." 

"  Corrie,  dear,  shall  I  stay?  " 
328 


MR.  BIGGAMORE  MOPS  HIS  BROW 

"  Yes,  if  you  wish.  It  does  n't  make  any  difference 
now." 

Mr.  Biggamore  heard  the  "  Corrie,  dear,"  and  after 
a  confused  and  startled  look  at  first  one  and  then  the 
other  of  the  two,  he  jerked  his  eyes  away,  and  stared 
at  the  carpet.  "  Oh !  "  he  murmured,  now  for  the  first 
time  enlightened ;  for,  if  the  truth  be  told,  Mrs. 
Geikie  had  not  dared  to  confess  even  to  him  her  dis 
quieting  suspicions  of  what  had  been  going  on  be 
tween  her  son  and  this  young  girl,  who  so  suddenly 
had  brought  her  dreams  to  an  end.  But  whatever 
the  pain  of  it, — the  pain  every  mother  feels  when  first 
she  learns  other  ties  may  cross  even  her  own  strong 
bond  —  whatever  her  pain, — she  was  at  least  just 
enough  to  realize  the  choice  must  be  left  to  him.  Phil 
must  hear,  and  Phil  must  decide  for  himself. 

"  What  have  you  to  tell  me,  Mr.  Biggamore  ?  " 
asked  Corrie,  quietly ;  "  will  you  tell  me  now  ?  " 

He  raised  his  eyes  from  the  floor.  "  Miss  Robinson, 
I  had  no  opportunity  to  ask  Miss  Tollabee  flatly 
whether  she  knows  who  you  are.  In  point  of  truth, 
it  was  n't  necessary.  What  I  did  do,  was  to  ask 
whether  she  knew  Mrs.  Pinchin,  and  the  answer  in 
itself  seems  sufficient.  She  said  she  knew  nothing  of 
her.  Could  n't  say  who  she  was.  And  to  the  best  of 
her  recollection,  had  never  even  heard  the  name  be 
fore.  So  that  settles  it,  does  n't  it?  " 

As  Mr.  Biggamore,  uttering  this  in  emphatic  tones, 
brought  it  to  a  finish,  Mrs.  Geikie  turned  and  slowly 
shook  her  head. 

"  No  —  no,  Philip !  "  she  said  painfully ;  "  that 
329 


CORRIE  WHO? 

won't  do.  Tell  everything,  and  let  her  form  her  own 
conclusions." 

So  Mr.  Biggamore  thoroughly  disliking  the  task, 
told  everything,  as  his  sister  had  directed,  and  Corrie 
listened,  learning  it  all,  at  last. 

"  Well,  last  night,"  said  Mr.  Biggamore,  mopping 
his  brows  again,  "  I  went  up  to  West  Tenth  Street 
and  found  the  house.  It  was  a  plain,  brick  dwelling, 
rather  modest,  I  thought,  for  people  with  the  Tolla- 
bees'  money.  But  there  's  no  accounting  for  tastes, 
however,  and  then  later  on,  I  learned  they  had 
a  pretty  good  reason  for  living  in  that  dingy  house  in 
a  dingy  street.  The  fact  is,  all  the  Tollabee  fortune 
is  gone.  Hmph !  "  Mr.  Biggamore  cleared  his  throat 
nervously,  embarrassed  again,  since  Phil's  dead  father 
had  been  accused  of  stealing  this  Tollabee  money. 
"  Well,  I  rang  the  bell,"  said  Mr.  Biggamore,  "  and 
as  I  stood  in  the  vestibule,  I  could  see  someone  dimly 
through  the  glass,  moving  at  the  further  end  of  the 
hall.  They  took  a  precious  long  time  about  letting 
me  in,  too ;  and  I  had  to  ring  again.  Then  the  door 
was  opened,  and  in  the  hall  I  saw  an  elderly  woman  — • 
slight,  a  little  stoop-shouldered,  and,  as  far  as  I 
could  make  out,  quietly,  but  well  dressed  —  black  silk, 
you  know,  and  a  piece  of  lace  over  her  shoulders. 
She  was  n't  anyone  I  knew,  of  course,  because  I  'd 
never  seen  anyone  of  the  family  but  Tollabee  himself. 
Still,  I  guessed  who  she  was ;  and  '  Is  this  Miss  Tolla 
bee?  '  I  asked  her. 

"  She  gave  me  a  stiff  little  nod,  and  said  it  was. 
Pretty  silent  sort  of  a  woman,  I  should  call  her,  too, 

330 


MR.  BIGGAMORE  MOPS  HIS  BROW 

and  not  any  too  glad  to  be  bothered  by  me.  But, 
anyway,  she  showed  me  into  her  parlor,  and  after  I'd 
found  a  chair,  she  sat  opposite  with  her  hands  folded, 
waiting  for  me  to  open  up  —  and,  gad !  I  did  n't 
feel  any  too  comfortable,  either,  when  I  tried  to  get 
going.  She  would  n't  give  me  any  help,  but  sat 
watching  me  curiously,  —  peering  at  me,  you  know, 
nearsightedly,  as  if  she  were  trying  to  make  out 
what  I  was  after. 

"  '  Madam,'  said  I,  after  I  'd  taken  a  look  at  her ; 
'  now  you  '11  pardon  me,  but  —  hm-m-mh !  —  is  this 
Miss  Tollabee  or  Mrs.  —  ?  '  Then  I  stopped,  you 
know,  because  I  disliked  bringing  in  that  —  er  — 
ahem !  I  mean  that  fellow's  name  —  well,  Stanwood 
Geikie,  if  I  've  got  to  say  it.  But  she  would  n't  give 
me  a  bit  of  help ;  so  I  had  to  plump  it  out.  '  Are  you 
Mrs.  Stanwood  Geikie?  '  I  had  to  ask  her  finally, 
and  then  she  blinked  at  me  a  while,  and  slowly  bent 
her  head.  '  I  prefer  to  be  called  Miss  Tollabee,' 
she  said  dully ;  '  you  doubtless  know  the  reason 
why.' 

"  Yes,  I  know  well  enough,  though  I  did  n't  refer 
to  it ;  only  bowed,  you  know.  '  Well,  madam,'  said  I 
politely ;  '  of  course  you  '11  want  to  know  why  I  put 
in  that  advertisement.'  Hmph!  She  just  nodded  at 
me  dully,  just  about  as  cold  and  dumb  as  an  oyster. 
'  Yes,  ma'am,'  said  I,  a  little  ruffled  now,  because  I 
could  see  she  was  determined  not  to  say  anything 
until  she  found  out  what  took  me  there.  '  Well,  Miss 
Tollabee,'  said  I,  and  started  in  to  lead  up  gradually 
to  my  real  business  —  this  business  about  you,  Miss 

331 


CORRIE  WHO? 

Robinson.  I  had  to  go  at  it  gingerly,  you  see. 
'  Miss  Tollabee,'  I  told  her,  '  I  've  come  about  the 
old  matter  of  the  papers.  Yes,  ma'am.' 

"  '  The  papers  ?  "  she  exclaimed,  sitting  up,  as 
tonished:  '  What  papers  do  you  mean?  ' 

"  So  I  told  her.  '  Don't  you  remember  the  papers 
Mr.  Tollabee  wrote  us  about  ?  —  your  step-brother, 
ma'am.  Just  before  he  died,  he  sent  word  he  had 
some  papers  to  hand  my  brother-in-law.  Madam,  as 
you  know,  we  never  got  those  papers ;  and  now  I  've 
come  to  ask  whether  by  any  chance  you  ever  happened 
to  find  them.' 

"  No ;  it  appeared  she  had  n't  found  them  —  or 
so  she  said."  Mr.  Biggamore  pursed  his  lips  again. 
"  I  'm  bound  to  say  she  was  n't  very  polite  about 
it,  though.  No !  "  he  grunted,  frowning ;  "  you 
should  have  seen  the  woman.  She  would  n't  look  at 
me,  and  she  acted  as  if  she  'd  like  to  bundle  me  out  of 
the  house,  now  that  she  'd  found  out,  as  she  thought, 
what  I  wanted.  *  Mr.  Biggamore,'  she  said,  half  get 
ting  up  out  of  her  chair,  '  I  don't  know  anything 
about  your  papers.  You  might  have  written  this  to 
me  —  I  have  sickness  in  this  house,  and  I  did  n't  know 
it  was  about  the  papers  you  wished  to  see  me.  Is 
that  why  you  came?  Is  that  all?  ' 

" '  No,  ma'am,  that 's  not  quite  all,"  said  I,  begging 
her  to  sit  down  again ;  '  I  'd  like  to  ask  something 
else.  It 's  pretty  important,  ma'am ! '  I  lowered  my 
voice  then,  because  I  thought  there  might  be  someone 
in  the  next  room ;  and  naturally,  it  would  n't  do  to 
bawl  out  to  them  what  I  had  to  say.  No,  indeed! 

332 


MR.  BIGGAMORE  MOPS  HIS  BROW 

'  Miss  Tollabee,'  said  I,  dropping  my  voice,  *  maybe 
your  sister  knows  where  those  papers  are.  And  will 
you  tell  me  where  I  can  find  her?  ' 

"  Hmph !  She  did  n't  seem  to  feel  any  desire  to 
hide  anything.  Anyway,  if  there  'd  been  someone  in 
the  next  room,  her  tone  was  high  and  sharp  enough 
to  be  heard.  In  fact,  she  seemed  irritated  enough 
to  raise  her  voice.  '  Mr.  Biggamore,'  said  she,  loudly, 
and  pretty  nervous  she  was,  too,  I  could  see,  by  the 
way  she  hung  on  to  the  chair  arms,  '  why  have  you 
come  here  to  rake  up  an  old  trouble  ?  What  have  you 
got  to  do  with  it  ?  '  Hmph !  It  was  as  if  she  'd 
really  guessed  I  was  only  beating  around  the  bush  — 
well,  as  I  was  sure  enough  —  and  her  voice,  too,  was 
like  a  file.  '  Madam,  it 's  the  papers,'  said  I,  sticking 
to  my  first  story;  '  I  'd  just  like  to  be  sure,  ma'am, 
that  your  sister  has  n't  found  them.'  Then  she  an 
swered  me,  and  that 's  where  I  found  I  was  on  the 
right  trail. 

"  You  see,  I  knew  nothing  at  all  about  her 
sister.  I  did  n't  know  whether  she  was  there  in  the 
house  with  her,  or  where  she  was.  It  was  just  a  leap 
in  the  dark.  Says  she :  '  Mr.  Biggamore  '  —  angry 
and  resentful,  too,  as  she  had  every  right  to  be  at 
my  interrogation  — '  Mr.  Biggamore,  I  don't  know 
where  my  sister  is.  I  have  n't  seen  her  for  years.' 
Hmph !  It  was  as  I  'd  begun  to  suspect.  *  Not  for 
nearly  seventeen  years,  '  she  went  on  to  say,  moisten 
ing  her  lips  and  upset  at  having  to  admit  it ;  'I 
don't  know  what 's  become  of  her  —  and  you  have  no 
right  to  meddle.  You  have  no  right  to  meddle ! '  she 

333 


CORRIE  WHO? 

cried,  raising  her  voice  at  me.  '  You  have  no  right 
to  drag  up  my  trouble  like  this.' 

"  I  had  n't ;  that  was  a  fact !  But  —  '  One  mo 
ment,  madam,  if  you  please,'  I  said  politely ;  '  I 
dislike  to  worry  you,  but  I  've  really  got  to  find  your 
sister.  Now,  you  don't  know  where  she  is  but  I  think 
I  do ;  only  I  'd  like  to  make  sure.'  Well,  Miss  Tolla- 
bee  got  up  out  of  her  chair  and  then  sat  right  down 
again.  'Where  she  is?  You  have  found  her?'  she 
cried,  and  I  could  see  that  no  matter  how  the  two 
had  fallen  out,  she  'd  like  to  know  where  the  other 
was,  well  enough. 

"  '  Madam,'  said  I,  once  she  'd  caught  her  breath, 
'  have  you  ever  heard  of  a  Mrs.  Pinchin  ?  Do  you 
happen  to  know  the  name?  ' 

"  I  thought  she  knew  at  first.  '  Mrs.  Pinchin !  — 
No,  I  never  heard  the  name.  I  'm  quite  positive  it 
can't  be.  And  even  if  it  is,  she  can't  possibly  have 
your  papers.  My  step-brother  and  she  hadn't 
spoken  to  each  other  for  months  before  he  died.' 

"  That  was  news  to  me  though  it  all  became  clear 
enough,  later,  when  I  heard  why  the  sisters  separated. 
'  Madam,'  I  asked  her,  '  is  your  sister  a  large,  dark- 
faced  woman  who  walks  with  a  limp?  Tell  me,  if  you 
please.' 

"  She  sat  down  again  and  began  to  think.  '  A 
limp  —  a  dark  woman  with  a  limp  ?  '  she  repeated, 
and  I  began  to  see  that  the  ordeal  was  getting  too 
much  for  her.  '  I  don't  know,'  she  said,  '  how  am  I 
to  remember  when  I  have  n't  seen  her  for  years  ?  I 
don't  know  what  she  looks  like  now.'  Then  she 

334 


MR.  BIGGAMORE  MOPS  HIS  BROW 

struggled  up  in  her  chair  and  threw  out  her  hands. 
'  Oh,  Mr.  Biggamore,  is  this  Mrs.  Pinchin  —  do  you 
think  she  's  the  one?  Let  me  go  to  her  for  your  pa 
pers  —  I  '11  do  it.  I  think  I  can  get  them.  Oh,  let 
me  go  and  get  her  back  to  me.  I  want  to  get  her 
back  —  I  do  —  I  do.  I  want  to  get  her  back  and 
keep  her,  just  as  we  were  when  we  were  happy  to 
gether —  just  as  we  were  when  we  were  two  young 
girls  —  oh,  Mr.  Biggamore !  —  won't  you  let  me  get 
your  papers  for  you  ?  I  've  prayed  God  to  bring  my 
sister  back  to  me,  as  she  was,  when  we  were  two  girls 
together.'  " 

Corrie  looked  up  swiftly.  "  Tell  me,  please,"  she 
said  hurriedly;  "what  did  Miss  Tollabee  look  like? 
Will  you  describe  her  for  me  ?  " 

Mr.  Biggamore  thought  for  a  moment.  "  She  was 
a  medium-sized  woman,  a  little  bent  over,  and  very 
pale.  I  suppose  that  was  because  she  was  excited, 
though."  Corrie  nodded,  and  Mr.  Biggamore  went 
on.  "  She  was  quite  near-sighted,  as  I  've  said,  and 
then " 

"  And  spectacles  ?  "  inquired  Corrie,  quickly. 

Mr.  Biggamore  shook  his  head.  "  No,  but  I 
thought  she  'd  forgotten  her  glasses.  Why  ?  " 

Corrie  disregarded  the  question.  "  Was  she  very 
plainly  dressed  —  dowdily,  in  fact?  And  did  she  have 
dull,  light  brown  hair?  " 

Mr.  Biggamore,  puzzled,  shook  his  head  again. 
"  No,  on  the  contrary  she  was  nicely  dressed.  The 
lace  on  her  shoulders  was  quite  fine,  I  should  say, 

335 


CORRIE  WHO? 

quite  old  and  expensive.  As  to  her  hair,  why  — 
hm-m-mh  —  let  me  see.  Oh,  to  be  sure,  —  why  her 
hair  was  very  gray  —  almost  white,  in  fact.  Then 
she  wore  a  magnificent  diamond  brooch  at  her  throat, 
and  her  rings  —  well,  they  were  beautiful.  I  got  a 
good  look  at  them  when  she  reached  out  her  hands  at 
me,  begging  to  get  her  sister  back.  But  why  do  you 
ask?  " 

Corrie  sat  back  in  her  chair  with  a  little  gesture 
of  defeat.  "  It  is  n't  anything,  Mr.  Biggamore.  I 
wondered  whether  I  'd  ever  seen  her." 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Biggamore,  going  on  with  his 
story,  "  I  quieted  her  down.  She  and  her  sister  had 
separated  over  a  pretty  serious  business ;  I  don't 
wonder  she  was  so  upset  about  it.  But  time  heals 
many  wounds,  and  I  could  see  she  wished  to  hear 
about  the  other  whom  she  had  n't  seen  for  so  many 
years.  Of  course,  I  felt  no  doubt  now  of  who  Mrs. 
Pinchin  was,  and  Miss  Tollabee  seemed  to  think  so 
too  —  or,  rather,  she  made  no  further  effort  to  dis 
pute  it.  Well,  the  point  is,  Miss  Robinson,  that  I 
got  down  at  last  to  where  I  began  to  see  daylight 
in  this  Pinchin  business. 

"  It  was  in  this  way :  *  Mr.  Biggamore,'  said  she, 
after  I  'd  told  her  about  the  woman  in  Seventy-fifth 
Street,  '  how  did  you  find  out  all  this  ?  Who  told 
you  ?  '  She  was  pretty  solemn  and  worried  about 
it  now,  hating  to  talk  of  her  trouble,  you  see,  yet 
wanting  to  hear  all  about  her  sister.  '  How  did  you 
find  out?  '  she  asked,  and  I  told  her,  lowering  my 

336 


MR.  BIGGAMORE  MOPS  HIS  BROW 

voice  because  I  'd  heard  someone  in  the  next  room. 
There  was  only  a  folding  door  between,  and  we 
would  have  easily  been'  overheard.  But  Miss  Tolla- 
bee  told  me  to  go  on;  the  person  was  only  a  nurse 
and  would  n't  understand  what  we  were  talking  about. 
'  Well,  ma'am,  in  rather  a  strange  way,'  said  I,  and 
I  told  her  all  about  the  curious  happenings  at  Mrs. 
Pinchin's ;  how*  she  'd  moved  out  of  the  house  behind 
us  when  we  came  along,  and  about  the  album  you  'd 
found  in  the  garret,  and  the  book  with  the  Tollabee 
name  in  it;  only  I  didn't  tell  her  about  you,  you 
understand,  Miss  Robinson.  I  was  holding  back  that 
business  about  the  Tollabee  child,  so  that  I  'd  have 
some  sort  of  a  climax  —  Hm-m-mh !  —  it  was  a  cli 
max,  but  not  just  the  kind  I'd  anticipated. 

"  Miss  Tollabee  was  mighty  interested.  *  You 
have  n't  told  me  yet,'  said  she,  earnestly,  '  who  gave 
you  this  information.'  So  then  I  plumped  out 
with  it. 

"  *  My  dear  madam,'  said  I,  leaning  back  and  grin 
ning  at  her  like  a  fool,  '  the  person  who  told  me  this, 
and  the  one  who  has  the  album,  is  Randolph  Tolla- 
bee's  daughter.' 

Mr.  Biggamore  screwed  his  face  into  a  rueful  scowl. 
"  Huh !  It  was  ridiculous !  —  absurd !  —  a  piece  of 
imbecile  tomfoolery ! "  he  grunted,  with  another  wry 
face ;  "  I  ought  to  have  been  ashamed  of  making 
such  a  clown  of  myself! 

"  *  Randolph  Tollabee's  daughter ! '  repeated  Miss 
Tollabee,  looking  at  me,  as  if  I  'd  lost  my  wits ; 
*  Randolph  Tollabee's  daughter,  did  you  say  ? ' 
22  337 


CORRIE  WHO? 

"  '  Yes,  ma'am ;  she  's  living  with  Mrs.  Pinchin !  ' 
I  answered,  nodding  and  smiling,  and  ready  to 
enj  oy  her  amazement.  '  That 's  where  the  girl 's 
been  found ! '  But  instead  of  what  I  expected  Miss 
Tollabee  gripped  her  hands  together,  and  sat  back 
staring. 

"  *  Mr.  Biggamore,'  said  she,  in  a  curious  voice, 
*  Randolph  Tollabee's  daughter  is  here  in  this  house 
with  me!  She  's  been  here  for  years  - —  and  I  don't 
know  what  you  mean!  Why,  the  child  has  been  in 
my  charge  ever  since  my  step-brother  died ! '  And 
so  she  had !  So  she  had !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Bigga- 
more ;  "  that 's  all  there  is  to  tell."  And  thrusting 
his  hands  into  his  pockets  Mr.  Biggamore  sat  back 
with  a  gesture  of  finality.  It  was  his  signal  the  tale 
was  told,  so  far  as  he  was  concerned. 

Corrie  sank  her  chin  into  her  hand,  and  thought; 
or  rather,  she  made  an  effort  to  think.  But  though 
she  had  followed  the  tale  with  a  close,  absorbed  at 
tention,  she  had  failed,  so  far,  to  grasp  its  full  sig 
nificance.  The  others  silently  detached,  waited,  all 
three  with  their  eyes  on  her.  "  So  you  saw  her 
then  ?  "  murmured  Corrie,  lifelessly ;  "  you  saw  Ran 
dolph  Tollabee's  daughter  ?  " 

Mr.  Biggamore  slowly  nodded,  his  eyes  still  fas 
tened  on  her  in  pity.  "  Yes,  —  I  saw  her.  She  has 
been  an  invalid  all  her  life  —  a  cripple  to  tell  the 
truth.  Poor  thing,  poor  unfortunate  child;  she  may 
be  dead  even  now,  for  when  I  saw  her,  she  was  not 
expected  to  live.  Poor  Miss  Tollabee,  too !  She  stood 

338 


MR.  BIGGAMORE  MOPS  HIS  BROW 

with  the  tears  streaming  down  her  face  when  she  took 
me  up  to  see  Randolph  Tollabee's  daughter.  I  felt 
sorry  for  the  woman.  Ton  my  soul,  I  did." 

Another  silence.  Corrie  sat  again  with  her  chin 
resting  in  her  hand.  Once  or  twice  Mr.  Biggamore 
moved  uncomfortably,  as  if  he  wished  to  say  some 
thing.  But  Corrie  was  the  first  to  speak. 

*'  Is  there  anything  else  —  anything  you  have  n't 
told  me  yet?  If  there  is,  I'd  like  to  hear  it." 

Mr.  Biggamore  turned  appealingly  to  his  sister; 
as  Mrs.  Geikie  caught  his  eye  she  made  him  an  al 
most  imperceptible  signal ;  and  Mr.  Biggamore  shook 
his  head  pleadingly. 

Corrie  saw  it.  "  There  is  something  else,  Mr.  Big 
gamore.  Won't  you  please,  please  tell  me  ?  " 

The  little  old  gentleman  mopped  his  forehead  ner 
vously.  "  Do  you  know  who  I  am?  "  demanded  Cor 
rie,  in  a  whisper  shrill  and  distinct.  Her  eyes  widened 
as  she  guessed  the  answer  in  Mr,  Biggamore's  appeal 
ing  look  at  his  sister. 

"  My  dear  child,"  he  said,  ponderously ;  "  after 
the  Tollabee  sister  went  away  to  make  a  home  for  her 
self,  she  had  a  child  —  a  daughter.  Miss  Margaret 
told  me  so  just  before  I  left  her.  I  leave  you  to  form 
your  own  conclusions." 

A  spot  of  color  burned  brightly  for  an  instant  on 
the  girl's  cheeks,  and  then  faded  as  the  pallor  crept 
up  in  her  face.  "  A  daughter !  "  she  murmured,  he* 
eyes  widening  at  him.  "  A  daughter !  Mrs.  Pinchin 
—  a  daughter?  " 

339 


CORRIE  WHO? 

Phil  sprang  toward  her.  "  Corrie !  "  he  cried,  and 
at  his  exclamation  Mrs.  Geikie  looked  up  and  slowly 
and  sorrowfully  shook  her  head.  "  But,  mother !  " 
appealed  Phil,  impetuously ;  "  this  makes  it  all  right, 
of  course.  We  know  who  she  is  now ;  she  's  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin's  daughter  —  and  that  settles  it,  does  n't  it  now? 
But  to  think  how  that  woman  's  treated  her !  Oh,  it 's 
abominable !  "  He  stopped,  bit  his  lip  hastily,  and 
looked  at  his  mother  with  a  sudden  stare  of  inquiry. 
Whatever  the  glance  conveyed,  she  paid  no  attention 
to  it. 

"  Philip,"  said  Mrs.  Geikie  to  Mr.  Biggamore,  in 
a  faltering  voice,  "  you  '11  have  to  tell  it  all  now ;  she  '11 
find  it  out,  anyway.  You  must  tell  her !  " 

Corrie,  with  a  shudder  of  distress,  raised  a  hand  to 
her  cheek,  and  breathed  deeply.  "  Mrs.  Pinchin  my 
mother?  —  She !  —  my  mother !  Mrs.  Pinchin!  — 
Oh!  but  then  how  could  she  have  treated  me  so? 
How  could  she !  " 

"  My  dear,  dear  child,"  said  Mr.  Biggamore,  pity 
ingly  ;  "  when  the  Tollabee  sisters  parted  —  when 
Mrs.  Pinchin  went  away,  why  —  well,  my  dear  young 
girl,  the  fact  is,  she  ran  off  with  her  sister's  husband 
—  with  Stanwood  Geikie.  I  'm  afraid  the  man  is 
your  father." 


340 


CHAPTER   XVII 

Showing  the  undesirable  result  of  discovering  one's  unknown 
parents.  —  Mrs.  Geikie's  sympathy  and  her  appeal  to 
Corrie.  —  How  the  course  of  true  love  may  not  only  never 
run  smoothly,  but  may  even  be  brought  to  a  dead  stop.  — 
Phil's  determination.  —  The  return  to  Mrs.  Pinchin's, 
and  what  Corrie  said  to  her.  —  Mrs.  Pinchin's  dismay 
at  being  discovered  in  a  most  uncomfortable  role. 

SO  Corrie  had  learned;  for  here,  at  last,  was  the 
solution  of  the  mystery  —  a  parting  of  the  veil 
—  the  key  to  her  perplexities  of  Corrie  Who?  and 
Corrie  What?  All  her  dreams  were  rendered  now  in 
an  answer  that  was  itself  a  nightmare  more  grotesque 
and  embittering  than  even  the  hopelessness  of  being 
left  in  doubt.  Her  mind,  focussed  on  the  truth  that 
had  at  length  been  made  clear  to  her,  grasped  the 
sordid  reality  with  a  despair  that  stripped  her  of  the 
last  shreds  of  comfort.  She  knew  now  —  yet,  in 
agony,  cried  out  again  for  the  past  life  when  she  had 
not  known.  Before  realization  withered  all  else,  ig 
norance  had,  at  least,  allowed  her  to  cherish  hope, 
and  now  hope,  like  the  phantasy  of  a  dream,  had  been 
stripped  from  her  in  the  awakening.  She  arose  to 
her  feet,  her  mouth  drawn  in  the  struggle  of  trying 
to  hide  the  pain  of  it,  and  steadying  herself  by  her 
chair,  the  girl  drew  a  hand  across  her  brow.  It  was 
a  gesture  of  dull,  tired  surrender;  nothing  was  left 
to  her  now  but  to  submit  to  what  was  given. 

341 


CORRIE  WHO? 

"  I  understand,  Mr.  Biggamore.  It 's  quite  clear 
to  me."  The  little  gilt  clock  ticking  on  the  mantel, 
with  a  preliminary  whirr,  struck  the  hour  on  its  chime, 
and  she  turned  her  eyes  to  it  confusedly.  "  I  must 
be  going  now.  I  don't  think  I  could  hear  any  more 
now.  There  is  n't  anything  to  tell,  I  suppose  ?  I 
must  get  home  —  back  to  Mrs.  Pinchin's,  because 
that 's  really  my  home,  after  all.  She  '11  be  expect 
ing  me,  and  I  've  been  away  a  long  while  now." 

Mrs.  Geikie  got  up  from  her  chair,  and  spoke  to 
her  softly :  "  But  you  can't  go  like  this,"  she  said, 
her  face  keenly  showing  her  sympathy  and  remorse. 
Perhaps  poor  Corrie  should  not  have  been  told.  Per 
haps  there  might  have  been  some  other  way.  Yet  a 
moment's  thought  showed  her  the  futility  of  hiding 
a  thing  like  that.  And  after  all,  it  were  better  the 
two  knew  now,  this  boy  and  girl,  than  to  have  the 
truth  raise  its  ugly  shadow  later  on.  "  You  must  n't 
go  like  this,  my  dear.  Stay  here  with  us  a  little  while. 
I  wish  you  to  stay,  and  let  me  talk  to  you." 

"  No,"  said  Corrie. 

"  But,  my  dear Besides,  you  have  neither  hat 

nor  coat ;  you  must  wait  to  let  me  send  you  home  in 
a  carriage."  She  looked  at  Phil,  as  she  said  this ;  and 
the  young  man,  understanding,  nodded  back  at  his 
mother.  During  these  few  burdened  moments,  he  had 
been  trying  vainly  to  read  from  Corrie's  eyes  how 
deeply  the  shock  of  all  this  had  affected  her ;  but 
Corrie  studiously  averted  her  face.  She  heard  him 
leave  his  place  by  the  mantel,  and  when  the  door 
closed  behind  him,  she  looked  up  again. 


THE   RETURN  TO   MRS.   PINCHIN'S 

"  You  can  see  how  it  is,  Mrs.  Geikie.  I  must  go 
back  to  Mrs.  Pinchin's,  and  begin  all  over  again. 
Your  friendship  and  all  my  small  hopes  must  end 
here,  because  it  would  only  hurt  me  to  continue  —  and 
trouble  you,  too ;  don't  you  see  it  would?  —  if  it  all 
kept  on."  The  older  woman  tried  to  say  something, 
but  Corrie  smiled  wistfully  and  shook  her  head.  "  No ; 
—  I  can  see  how  it  is,  clearly.  I  've  been  carried  on 
into  dreaming  I  was  like  other  girls,  and  now  I  've 
got  to  learn  I  'm  not.  You  see,  I  Ve  never  had  the 
childhood  they  have,  and  when  your  son  came  and  I 
grew  to  know  him,  I  began  to  think  that  maybe  I  'd 
have  something  to  make  up  for  all  I  'd  missed  when 
I  was  a  little  girl.  If  I'd  had  a  childhood,  and  a  home, 
and  a  name  all  my  own,  it  still  would  have  made  me 
happy  to  think  he  cared  for  me.  And  to  think  he 
cared  for  me  anyway,  and  then  to  believe  everything 
was  all  right,  it  seemed  to  me,  Mrs.  Geikie,  as  if  it 
really  did  n't  matter  about  the  past.  I  could  afford 
to  let  all  that  go,  because  this  new  happiness  was  go 
ing  to  be  so  great  that  I  'd  forget  all  the  rest  I  had 
missed.  Then  I  began  to  know  it  could  n't  be  true. 
I  was  sure  of  that  even  before  you  and  Mr.  Biggamore 
told  me,  though  I  still  clung  desperately  to  the  hope. 
It  seemed  too  wicked  to  think  I  should  be  allowed  to 
taste  such  j  oy ,  only  to  have  it  all  taken  away  from  me. 
But  it 's  so  —  it 's  so.  It 's  all  been  taken  away,  as 
you  can  see;  and  now  I  must  go  away,  and  not  talk 
about  it,  or  think  about  it  any  more.  It 's  not  meant 
I  should  get  what  other  girls  have,  as  I  've  always 
realized.  Now  I  must  go  back  to  Mrs.  Pinchin's." 

343 


CORRIE  WHO? 

"  Mother,"  said  Phil,  quietly ;  "  Corrie  can't  go 
away  like  this.  We  can't  let  her  go  back  to  that 
house.  You  know  what  you  think  yourself." 

Mrs.  Geikie  looked  back  at  him,  her  lips  pressed 
together,  and  again  the  shadow  of  pain  in  her  eyes. 
"  Yes,  Phil  —  and  you  still  wish  it?  " 

"  Yes,  mother,"  he  answered  quietly. 

Mrs.  Geikie  sighed  gently,  as  if  with  the  sigh  had 
been  rung  the  knell  of  all  her  ambitious  dreams  for 
him.  **  Miss  Robinson  —  Corrie,  if  I  may  call  you 
so,  since  my  son  wills  it,  you  must  stay  here  with 
us  now.  It  will  not  do  for  you,  after  this,  to  return 
to  Mrs.  Pinchin's." 

"Hey  —  what's  that?"  ejaculated  Mr.  Bigga- 
more,  quite  astounded. 

Corrie  raised  her  eyes.  "  No,  Mrs.  Geikie,"  she 
said ;  "  I  am  very  grateful ;  but  I  must,  indeed,  go 
back  there.  I  have  been  away  now  already  too  long 
a  time.  I  must  get  back  as  soon  as  I  can." 

Mrs.  Geikie  drew  a  deep  breath;  it  was  plain  the 
girl  had  not  clearly  perceived  her  meaning. 

"  My  dear,  you  do  not  understand.  You  are  to 
stay  here  always  —  to  live  here  until  you  and  my  boy 
have  made  a  home  for  yourselves.  That  is  what  I 
mean.  He  has  asked  it ;  but  oh,  Corrie,  Corrie !  "  she 
cried,  rising  and  stretching  out  her  hands  to  the 
girl ;  "  you  will  try  to  make  him  happy  —  you 
will,  won't  you?  Because  it  is  for  his  happiness  — 
only  for  that  —  for  his  love  for  you,  that  I  have 
given  up  so  much.  Try  to  make  him  happy,  won't 
you?" 

844 


THE   RETURN  TO   MRS.   PINCHIN'S 

Corrie  walked  swiftly  to  her,  and  took  the  two 
outstretched  hands. 

"  I  understand  —  but  I  cannot !  "  she  answered 
quietly;  and  at  this,  Phil  started  with  a  gesture  of 
protest.  But  Corrie  turned  to  him  with  her  broken 
smile.  "  No,  Phil  —  and  you,  dear  lady  —  I  can't 
let  you  make  that  sacrifice.  I  know  already  that  I 
must  not,  happy  as  it  would  make  me.  I  love  your 
son  very  dearly,  Mrs.  Geikie;  I  think  I  shall  always 
love  him.  I  love  him  so,  indeed,  that  I  cannot  burden 
him  with  one  like  me.  It  is  very  dear  and  great  of 
you  to  ask  me  that,  knowing,  as  I  do,  what  you  think 
of  it ;  but  I  can't  do  it." 

"Corrie!" 

She  turned  to  him,  again  with  that  queer,  tremu 
lous  smile  of  hers,  and  shook  her  head.  "  No,  Phil ; 
I  can't  do  it." 

Mrs.  Geikie  leaned  forward,  and  laid  her  hand 
on  Corrie's  shoulder.  "  My  dear,"  said  she,  softly, 
"  I  think,  if  it  ever  happens  you  become  my 
daughter,  I  shall  be  proud  of  you.  Your  answer 
now  is  not  final,  I  am  sure.  You  will  change  your 
mind." 

"  No,"  said  Corrie ;  "  I  shall  not  change  it.  I 
love  him  too  much.  I  cannot  ruin  his  life." 

"  I  know  you  do,"  said  his  mother,  gently ;  "  but 
it  is  not  that.  I  know  my  son,  and  that  is  the  reason 
why  you  will  marry  him.  He  will  never  give  you  up, 
my  dear." 

But  Corrie  was  still  determined.  "  No,"  she  said, 
and  so  there  it  stood.  Still  further,  she  said  it  again, 

345 


CORRIE  WHO? 

when  Mrs.  Geikie  begged  her  stay  a  little  longer  and 
talk  to  her. 

The  grave,  gray-haired,  older  woman  dropped 
her  eyes  when  Corrie  finished;  Mr.  Biggamore, 
silently  drawing  in  his  upper  lip,  got  up  and  drifted 
to  the  mantel.  After  elaborately  staring  at  the  clock, 
and  then  as  elaborately  consulting  his  watch,  he 
twitched  at  his  forelock  thoughtfully,  and  wandered 
to  the  door.  "  Hm-m-mh ! "  said  Mr.  Biggamore 
softly;  and  the  door  closed  behind  him. 

"  Good-bye,  Mrs.  Geikie,"  said  Corrie,  restrained 
now,  and  only  a  little  pale ;  "  I  am  going." 

"  You  won't  wait?  I  wish  you  would  let  me  talk 
to  you." 

"  No,  please.  You  have  been  very  good  to  me ; 
but  I  can't  bear  to  talk  any  more." 

Gravely,  Mrs.  Geikie  waited,  perplexed  at  what  she 
should  say  or  do,  and  all  the  more  remorseful  now 

—  even   more   pained   that   Corrie   had   taken   it   so 
gently. 

"  But  your  carriage  has  n't  come.  Won't  you  sit 
with  me  until  it  is  here?" 

Corrie  smiled  listlessly.  "  I  want  to  be  alone,"  she 
said  slowly ;  "  I  can't  talk  to  anyone  now.  I  can't 
even  listen.  I  'd  like  to  stay  downstairs  until  the 
carriage  comes.  Won't  you  let  me  sit  in  your  draw 
ing-room  till  it  gets  here?  I've  got  to  try  to  think 

—  don't  you  see  ?  " 

Mrs.  Geikie  said  no  more.  "  Good-bye,"  murmured 
Corrie,  and  turned  away. 

346 


THE  RETURN  TO   MRS.   PINCHIN'S 

He  found  her  there  in  the  darkened  drawing-room, 
sitting  with  her  hands  clasped,  and  looking  down  into 
her  lap.  She  was  thinking,  her  mind  fixed  weakly  on 
the  new  beginning  and  how  she  should  face  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin  —  greet  the  woman,  who  after  all  was  said,  was, 
none  the  less,  her  mother.  "  Why !  I  thought  you  had 
gone  away  —  gone  out !  "  she  murmured  perplexedly ; 
and  then:  "  Is  the  carriage  here?  " 

Phil  stood  before  her,  silent  and  thoughtful,  his 
boyish  face  dark  with  the  concern  he  felt.  "  Won't 
you  go  —  please!  "  she  begged,  after  a  pause,  and 
again  there  was  the  queer,  crooked  smile  on  her  lips ; 
"  you  know  I  have  said  good-bye  to  you." 

But  instead  of  going,  he  still  waited,  quietly  ear 
nest.  "  There  's  only  one  thing  I  can  tell  you,  Cor- 
rie  dear,"  he  said  slowly.  "  It  does  n't  make  any 
difference  what  we  've  learned  —  what  I  heard  up 
stairs,  just  now.  It  doesn't  make  any  difference, 
little  girl." 

She  dropped  her  head  inertly.  "  But  you  've  said 
that  before.  Why  do  you  still  worry  me?  " 

Her  attitude  and  tone  were  as  if  only  she  had 
realized  the  hopelessness  of  her  trouble,  but  that  he 
might  realize,  too,  were  he  only  to  give  it  a  thought. 

"  Listen,  Corrie  dear :  I  don't  believe  you  under 
stand  how  sincerely  I  mean  that.  Can  I  make  it  any 
clearer?  Shall  I  tell  you  again  that  I  will  not  let 
you  go  —  and  why  ?  " 

"  No ;  it  will  do  no  good,  Phil.  Oh,  boy !  — 
boy!  —  why  do  you  make  it  so  hard  for  me?  Why 
won't  you  go,  when  I  have  said  good-bye  to  you? 

347 


CORRIE  WHO? 

Isn't  it  enough?  You  must  not  trouble  me  so. 
They  've  told  you  who  I  am,  and  you  could  see  what 
they  thought  of  it.  No,  it 's  as  Mrs.  Pinchin  said  — 
the  only  thing  that 's  left  to  me  is  to  go  crying  back 
to  her  to  beg  her  pardon.  There  's  nothing  else  to 
do,  is  there?  "  She  raised  her  eyes  with  a  quiet  cer 
tainty  in  what  she  said.  "  But  you  make  it  hard  — 
so  very  hard  for  me,  Phil.  I  did  want  to  get  away 
without  seeing  you  again,  and  yet  you  persist.  At 
the  last  moment,  I  wanted  to  say  to  your  mother  and 
uncle  not  to  tell  me  —  that  I  did  n't  want  to  hear, 
because  I  knew.  I  realized  that  what  I  'd  dreamed 
about  being  happy  and  having  a  home  —  and  a  name, 
Phil,  was  j  ust  nothing  but  a  dream.  And  I  did  n't 
want  you  to  hear  the  ugly  awakening.  Oh,  boy !  boy ! 
if  I  'd  only  had  strength  enough  to  stay  away  and 
keep  from  hearing  it  —  and  to  keep  you  from  hearing 
it,  too.  I  wanted  it  that  way.  I  wanted  it,  because 
then,  when  you  remembered  me,  it  would  be  just  as 
you'd  known  me  first  —  just  as  I  was  before  we 
learned  all  this  dreadful  reality." 

"  Stop,  Corrie !  "  There  was  a  harshness  in  his 
remonstrance  that  echoed  almost  anger.  "  Shall  I 
tell  you  still  again  that  this  reality,  as  you  call  it, 
has  not  changed  me  ?  Must  I  keep  on  repeating  it  — 
or  do  you  really  wish  me  to  go  away  and  leave  you? 
Is  that  it?" 

"  Oh,  Phil !  —  Phil !  can't  you  see  I  'm  not  able  to 
stand  much  more  of  this  ?  " 

"  Very  well,  then,"  he  answered,  in  a  sudden  tone 
of  mastery :  "  you  must  n't  talk  about  yourself,  Cor- 

348 


THE   RETURN  TO   MRS.  PINCHIN'S 

rie,  in  that  way.  It  is  n't  your  name  I  'm  thinking 
about,  or  anything  else  like  that  about  you ;  it 's  only 
you.  I  want  you !  —  you,  Corrie  dear  —  and  I  won't 
give  you  up.  Oh,  dear,  dear  little  girl !  what  differ 
ence  does  it  make  to  us  who  you  are?  You  can't  go 
away  all  alone  from  me  now  —  sweetheart !  —  poor 
little  girl!" 

She  fought  for  a  moment.  "  No !  no !  —  Phil ! 
why  do  you?  "  But  he  would  not  let  her  free.  Then 
again  came  the  thought  she  was  losing  him,  and  that 
this  ended  everything.  "  Oh,  boy !  —  why  do  you 
make  it  so  hard  for  me?  Can't  you  see  that  I  must 
go  away  from  you?  Can't  you?  can't  you?  Oh, 
don't  you  see  it?  "  There  she  clung  to  him,  her  face 
strained  against  his  shoulder,  her  frame  shaking  while 
he  tried  to  comfort  her.  "  Phil !  boy !  they  're  going 
to  make  me  lose  you,"  she  cried ;  "  and  I  can't  — 
I  can't ! " 

"  You  're  not  going  to,  dear  —  there !  there !  " 
He  held  her  closer,  stroking  her  hair  quietly,  till  the 
storm  of  tears  passed  and  left  her  calm  and  restrained 
again.  "  Phil ! "  She  reached  out  her  hands  and 
took  his  face  between  them.  Holding  him  a  moment, 
with  her  eyes  fastened  on  his,  she  drew  down  his  head 
toward  her.  "  Phil  —  this  is  good-bye !  " 

The  carriage  was  at  the  door.  "  It  is  good-bye," 
she  whispered,  looking  up  at  him  steadfastly :  "  good 
bye,  Phil,  and  please  try  not  to  look  at  me  like  that ; 
it  is  the  last  time,  you  know.  Good-bye !  " 

But  he  only  shook  his  head,  smiling  with  disbelief. 
"  Good-bye,  dear.  It 's  only  for  a  little  while  —  till 

349 


CORRIE  WHO? 

I  see  you  again,  you  know.  Good-bye,  —  till  then, 
little  girl !  "  So  while  her  face  lay  upturned  to  his, 
he  kissed  her  again ;  and  —  "  good-bye !  "  she  whis 
pered  ;  "  it  is  good-bye !  " 

Mrs.  Pinchin  was  at  home  and  waiting.  She  sat 
in  her  bedroom,  her  eyes  fastened  before  her  on  va 
cancy,  her  outstretched  hand  clinging  to  the  ivory 
handle  of  her  cane.  Mrs.  Pinchin  was  buried  in 
thought,  and  to  judge  by  the  way  she  clenched  her 
jaws  together  and  scowled,  it  could  not  have  been  a 
pleasant  reflection  that  raised  itself  behind  that  grim 
mask  of  hers.  A  dull,  portentous  fire  burned  in  her 
heavy-lidded  eyes;  she  was  breathing  deeply  while 
she  ruminated;  and  now  and  then  a  thick,  grunting 
murmur  rumbled  in  her  chest. 

Mrs.  Pinchin  sat  alone,  it  is  almost  needless  to 
say.  Miss  Maria  was  still  absent;  and  on  the  heels 
of  Corrie's  departure,  Miss  Freedlark  had  departed 
also.  After  a  brief  interview  with  her  hostess  she 
had  gone  down  the  stairs,  bag  in  hand,  on  her  bony 
face  a  look  of  the  most  convincing  and  painful  as 
tonishment.  Perhaps  it  may  be  best  to  let  Miss 
Freedlark  so  make  her  exit  behind  the  curtain  of  her 
blushes,  and  say  no  more  about  it ;  her  part  had  been 
played  in  the  drama ;  and,  if  the  truth  be  told,  it  had 
been  played  very  little  to  Mrs.  Pinchin's  taste.  "  Oh, 
thank  you  for  my  nice  visit,"  faltered  the  departing 
guest,  not  knowing  in  her  dazed  moment  just  what 
else  to  say,  whereupon  Mrs.  Pinchin  stared  at  her 
with  a  grin  of  wonder.  "  Oh,  thank  you  so  much," 

'350 


THE   RETURN  TO   MRS.   PINCHIN'S 

said  Miss  Freedlark;  and  then  as  a  parting  evidence 
of  her  esteem :  "  it 's  nice  to  think  I  shall  see  you 
Sunday  evening." 

"  Humph !  —  oh,  suit  yourself !  "  growled  Mrs. 
Pinchin,  ambiguously ;  and  with  a  surly  grin,  sharply 
closed  her  door. 

So  now  she  sat  denned  in  her  bedchamber,  waiting. 
The  hours  passed  and  still  she  brooded;  then  came 
the  expected  one  and  she  raised  her  crest. 

As  the  door  opened,  her  heavy  eyes  turned  to  it, 
and  a  silence  followed.  Then  afterward :  —  "So  you 
have  come  back,"  said  Mrs.  Pinchin,  the  words  uttered 
with  a  slow  rumbling  like  thunder  answering  to  the 
light  darting  from  her  eyes.  "  You  've  come  back, 
have  you?  "  she  repeated  with  a  grim  heaviness.  Then 
there  was  a  pause.  "  And  why  have  you  come  back  ?  " 
she  asked. 

Corrie  closed  the  door,  and  leaned  against  it,  with 
her  hand  still  on  the  knob.  There  was  no  wavering 
in  her  eyes,  as  she  fronted  the  glowering  visage 
turned  expectantly  toward  her ;  she  was  white,  yet 
resolutely  calm.  "  Yes,  I  have  come  back,"  she  said 
unintently ;  "  I  have  come  to  ask  you  whether  you  '11 
let  me  stay  here  now?  " 

"  Hey?  "  Mrs.  Pinchin's  brooding  darkness 
launched  itself  away,  and  there  dawned  in  her  eyes  a 
new  and  startling  eloquence  of  passion  —  not  con 
tempt,  or  the  slow  fever  of  sullenness,  or  rage  and 
hate,  but  an  armed,  alert  force  of  inquiry  and  wonder, 
and  with  that,  a  little  gleam  of  alarm.  "  Hey?  "  — 
and  then  as  a  light  seemed  to  break  in  on  her  mind's 

351 


CORRIE  WHO? 

shadowing  uncertainty,  her  features  gradually  com 
posed  themselves  into  a  fixed,  disparaging  leer. 
"  Hoh!  ho  —  ho!  "  she  croaked,  jeering  it  under  her 
breath,  and  grinning  with  the  pleasing  certainty  that 
she  was  right ;  "  and  so  you  've  heard  something, 
hey?  They've  told  you!"  she  cried,  knowing  it; 
"  and  your  young  whipper-snapper 's  turned  you 
adrift  ?  Oh-ho !  "  she  gibed,  and  with  a  mighty  strug 
gle  gained  her  feet.  "  So  you  've  learned  now  ?  Have 
they  told  you,  hey?  "  And  there  her  high-pitched 
eagerness  dropped  a  note  —  changed,  so  that  when 
she  spoke  again  it  was  with  a  furtive,  calculated  slow 
ness,  as  if,  once  more,  doubt  and  wonder  had  gained 
the  upper  hand.  "  Have  you  been  told  ?  —  and  what 
was  it?  Come!  "  she  rumbled,  the  hollow  stridency  of 
her  voice  echoing  through  the  closed  room.  Come! 
I  'd  like  to  know,"  said  Mrs.  Pinchin,  and  stared  at 
her. 

It  seemed  to  Corrie  as  if  in  that  pregnant  moment 
all  her  past  life  with  Mrs.  Pinchin  raised  itself  to 
stream  by  in  a  vivid  parade,  every  detail  of  it  crying 
a  new  claim  to  rouse  her  to  undying  bitterness.  For 
this  was  her  own  mother  —  the  woman  who  had  borne 
her;  and  the  knowledge  of  it  added  a  new  shame  to 
the  misery  she  already  felt  —  shame  for  the  mother 
who  could  have  treated  her  child  like  that ! 

"  Well  —  are  you  going  to  tell  me?  "  jeered  Mrs. 
Pinchin,  tilting  her  head  on  one  shoulder. 

"  No !  —  for  why  should  I  ?  "  answered  Corrie,  in 
a  tone  of  weary  dullness.  "  You  know  what  I  have 
been  told,  of  course  —  and  why  should  I  speak  of  it 

352 


THE   RETURN  TO   MRS.   PINCHIN'S 

to  you?  It  shames  me  even  to  think  of  it,  and  to  say 
it.  No,  I  '11  never  talk  of  that  with  you  —  never ! 
never!  All  I  ask  of  you  is  to  let  me  stay  here  where 
I  belong.  This  is  where  I  must  stay,  I  see,  if  you 
will  let  me.  Perhaps  some  day  I  shall  be  able  to 
reason  it  all  out  —  or,  perhaps  some  time  I  may  have 
to  ask  you  to  tell  me.  But  now  it  seems  so  unbeliev 
able  that  I  can't  bring  myself  to  think  of  it." 

Mrs.  Pinchin  dragged  a  chair  to  her,  and  with  her 
eyes  still  on  Corrie,  groped  for  it  clumsily,  and  then 
sat  down.  "  Eh?  I  'd  like  to  know,  now,  what  you  're 
driving  at  ?  "  she  piped  in  a  queer,  cracked  tone. 

Corrie  weariedly  studied  the  pattern  of  the  carpet, 
speculating  on  its  tracery  and  florid  coloring,  as  one 
in  a  fever  stares  at  the  covering  of  the  sick  room 
walls.  "  Don't !  You  must  n't  try  to  keep  it  up  any 
longer,"  she  retorted  brokenly ;  "  I  've  told  you  I 
know,  and  isn't  that  enough?  I  understand  all  — 
everything,  of  course,  but  what  you  've  done  to  me 
all  these  years.  •  I  suppose,  though,  it 's  only  the  way 
women  like  you  must  treat  their  children  when  they  're 
like  me.  I  did  n't  know  it  before.  But  I  want  you  to 
understand  that  you  '11  never  be  anything  except  Mrs. 
Pmchm  to  me.  I  can't  ever  think  of  you  —  or  ever 
call  you  —  by  that  other  name  —  never!  " 

A  faint  color  gathered  in  Mrs.  Pinchin's  flabby 
cheeks  and  spread  in  a  flood  to  her  brow  and  neck. 
She  glowed  with  it,  and  a  deep,  sobbing  gasp  sounded, 
as  she  sucked  in  her  breath.  Then  her  eyes  shifted  to 
the  floor,  and  went  cruising  away  into  the  far  cor 
ners,  darted  aside  and  came  drifting  back.  Guilt 
23  353 


CORRIE  WHO? 

wrote  itself  in  every  line  of  her  face;  her  eyes  stole 
back  to  Corrie,  and,  once  meeting  the  girl's  clear  look, 
they  leaped  away  again,  running  along  the  floor's 
edge  like  a  rat  trapped  and  trying  to  find  some  way 
out. 

"  Oh !  "  gasped  Mrs.  Pinchin,  shamefully ;  and  so 
she  knew. 

There  was  a  garish,  ormolu  timepiece  clucking  on 
Mrs.  Pinchin's  mantel ;  a  swaggering,  gilt  vulgarity, 
whose  pendulum  rocked  to  and  fro  with  a  kind  of 
drunken  knowingness.  Its  thick,  knocking  beat  at 
tracted  her  attention,  and  Corrie  fixed  her  gaze  on 
the  jeweled  face  until  her  sight  swam,  each  brilliant 
winking  at  her  with  a  separate  jeering  orb.  Sick 
ened  by  it,  she  wrenched  away  her  eyes,  and  let  them 
wander  vaguely  about  Mrs.  Pinchin's  boudoir.  Com 
fort  —  and  the  ostentation  of  comfort,  too,  vulgar 
and  ill-classed  as  it  was  —  comfort  showed  in  every 
nook,  a  marked,  distinct  evidence  of  the  self-indul 
gent  being  that  reigned  there.  But  with  all  this 
overpowering  display  of  it,  how  much  had  the  greedy 
genius  of  it  all  spared  to  her?  She  could  not  re 
member  even  so  much  as  the  comfort  of  a  kind  word 
or  act  —  much  less,  the  sharing  of  one  of  these  other 
material  comforts.  Greedy,  greedy  Mrs.  Pinchin 
—  and  to  think  that  she  was  her  mother !  Corrie 
withdrew  her  gaze  from  the  room's  crowded  comforts 
kept  there  for  Mrs.  Pinchin  only.  She  looked  at 
Mrs.  Pinchin  herself. 

"It's  understood  now,  isn't  it?  I  know  —  and 
354 


THE   RETURN  TO   MRS.   PINCHIN'S 

you  know,  Mrs.  Pinchin.  So  I  must  begin  again  — 
and  begin  where  I  belong  —  is  n't  that  it  ?  Well, 
where  are  the  ruffles  and  velvet  for  your  plum-colored 
gown?  I  have  my  work  and  you  '11  need  this  for 
your  party  Sunday  night." 

With  her  cheeks  still  flaming,  Mrs.  Pinchin  pointed 
speechlessly  to  the  work-basket,  gagged  once  in  an 
effort  to  say  something,  and  then,  her  stick  clatter 
ing  loosely  against  the  furniture,  fled  the  room  as 
if  pursued. 

Corrie  had  come  home,  indeed! 


355 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

Mrs.  Pinchin  entertains.  —  A  glimpse  of  West  Side  society  in 
one  of  its  curious  phases.  —  The  lady  from  the  middling 
West  and  her  convoluted  r's.  —  Mr.  Stanton's  whimsical 
remarks,  and  Mrs.  Pinchin's  just  resentment.  —  Mrs. 
Pinchin's  volunteer  musicians.  —  The  rebuke,  and  Mr. 
Stanton's  dismay.  —  Why  Corrie  would  n't  elope.  —  Phil 
and  his  singular  uncle. 

PROMPTLY  at  eight  o'clock  on  the  Sunday 
evening  following,  the  drawing-room  at  Mrs. 
Pinchin's  began  again  to  fill  itself  with  Mrs.  Pinchin's 
guests.  They  came  singly,  as  a  rule,  yet  in  such  in 
creasing  numbers  that  one  momentarily  became  more 
and  more  convinced  the  night's  entertainment  had 
been  planned  with  a  far  greater  elaboration  than  the 
hostess  had  ever  before  attempted. 

Of  this,  there  was  a  preliminary  confirmation  in 
the  awning  that  reached  from  the  curb  to  the  vesti 
bule;  and  on  climbing  the  steps,  the  arrivals  were 
greeted  with  still  further  evidence  of  it  in  the  person 
of  a  manservant,  who  with  automatic  precision  mur 
mured  to  each  newcomer :  — "  Ladies,  first  floor 
front;  gentlemen,  first  floor  back."  There,  on  the 
floor  above,  other  servants  were  in  waiting,  a  man  to 
remove  the  men's  coats ;  a  maid  to  assist  the  ladies. 
On  descending,  and  when  the  guests  had  presented 
themselves  at  the  drawing-room  door,  a  third  attend 
ant  disclosed  himself :  —  a  lackey,  flunkey,  castel- 

356 


PHIL  AND  HIS  SINGULAR  UNCLE 

Ian,  major-domo,  butler,  or  whatever  else  you  choose 
to  call  him,  who,  like  his  companions,  had  been  hired 
for  the  evening  from  the  caterer's.  In  justice  to 
this  personage,  however,  it  should  be  said  that 
though  he  had  so  far  fallen  beneath  himself  as  to 
accept  day's  wages  for  a  duty  like  this,  he  still  pre 
served  enough  of  his  self-respect  not  to  look  pleasant 
about  it.  Such  as  were  familiar  with  the  custom 
gave  him  their  names,  when  he  announced  them  with 
whatever  degree  of  scorn  he  thought  necessary  to 
their  station,  or,  more  exactly,  to  their  lack  of  it. 
Others  —  and  these  were  the  less  knowing  who 
sought  to  blunder  by  unannounced  —  he  held  up 
with  an  imperative  hand  and  an  equally  imperative 
scowl.  "  What  nyme  ?  "  —  and  the  name  being 
given  and  then  announced,  they  were  suffered  to  make 
an  uncomfortable  entrance. 

"  Mister  Seenyer  Halferendy!  " 

Entered  Signore  Alfuente,  the  rumpled  musician, 
a  slight  commotion  succeeding  at  his  heels  as  the 
next  comer  tried  unannounced  to  force  a  way  past 
impervious  Albion  at  the  door. 

"What  nyme?" 

"  Hey?  —  Why !  —  oh,  Freedlark." 

A  single  glance  having  established  the  probable 
handle  to  the  name,  Albion  raised  his  voice :  —  "  Miss 
O'Freedlark ! " 

Entered  the  lady  of  the  bony  face  and  the  highly 
articulated  shoulders,  and  pushed  her  way  toward 
the  hostess. 

Mrs.  Pinchin  sat  in  her  high,  heavily-carved  oak 
357 


CORRIE  WHO? 

chair  before  a  bank  of  palms,  which,  when  the  enter 
tainment  was  over,  would  be  transplanted  to  their 
pristine  jungle  of  Columbus  Avenue.  A  stiff  and 
impressive  aigret  nodded  on  her  crest ;  and  from  the 
pendulous  lobe  of  each  of  the  lady's  ears  a  large  sol 
itaire  diamond  hung,  glittering  with  a  fire  that  very 
nearly,  if  not  almost,  equaled  the  lambent  blaze  of 
her  eyes.  On  her  massive  person,  the  plum-colored 
brocade  shone  forth  with  a  newness  of  grandeur  that, 
in  itself,  was  worth  all  the  labor  and  trouble  re 
quired  of  Mrs.  Pinchin's  companion,  who  had  en 
tirely  remodeled  and  rehabilitated  the  dress  with 
ruffles  and  a  collar  of  panne  velvet.  Indeed,  as  a 
single  evidence,  it  was  enough  to  distinguish  the  oc 
casion  as  above  the  ordinary ;  and  one  needed  only 
to  look  at  it  and  then  at  the  jewels,  with  which  Mrs. 
Pinchin  had  tricked  herself  out,  to  know  she  had  de 
termined  to  make  both  herself  and  her  evening  mem 
orable.  For  beside  the  diamonds  in  her  ears,  the 
thewy  fingers  of  each  hand  were  stiff  with  rings ; 
bracelets  as  thick  and  formidable  as  handcuffs 
clasped  her  powerful  wrists ;  and  at  her  throat  shone 
a  diamond  brooch  notable  enough  in  size  to  have 
done  duty  as  a  stomacher,  or,  fitted  with  a  hoop,  to 
have  graced  the  brow  of  a  comic  opera  singer ;  — 
perhaps,  at  the  very  least,  a  duchess. 

In  view  of  the  trying  circumstances  that  had  gone 
before,  any  other  woman  less  decisive  than  Mrs. 
Pinchin  might  have  postponed  her  entertaining  to 
a  more  agreeable  moment.  Or  possibly,  if  it  were 
really  necessary  to  show  so  bold  a  front,  a  more 

358 


PHIL  AND  HIS  SINGULAR  UNCLE 

timid  person  might  have  essayed  it  on  a  less  deter 
mined  scale  —  a  small  dinner,  say,  or  a  few  friends 
in  for  the  evening  —  just  a  little  distraction  to  drive 
dull  care  away.  Yet  even  to  suggest  this  now  of 
Mrs.  Pinchin  seems  to  advocate  an  injustice  that 
to-night's  brave  front  should  hardly  encourage,  such 
was  the  intrepid  figure  she  made. 

For  there  was  the  old,  familiar  hostess;  there  the 
eyes'  languid  sullenness,  peering  insolently  through 
the  heavy  lids ;  the  same  wistful,  well-remembered 
droop  of  the  mouth;  and  beneath  the  pouched  and 
leathery,  flabby  cheeks,  the  square,  determined  firm 
ness  of  jaw  and  chin.  Mrs.  Pinchin,  in  fact,  and  so 
far  as  the  world  might  read  from  her  face,  carried  her 
self  as  if  no  happening,  however  untoward,  could 
occur  to  impugn  her  resolute  and  determined  cour 
age.  The  old  Pinchin  might  die,  but  it  never  would 
surrender;  and  the  girl  who  peered  at  her  from  a 
forgotten  corner  of  the  room  saw  her  now  as  she 
was  —  a  grim  and  undefeated  protestant  of  self, 
menacing  the  enemy  with  a  visage  frowning  with  all 
the  hauteur  and  nobility  of  a  warrior  whose  back  is 
against  the  wall.  Voila!  vive  la  Pinchin!  One 
scarcely  could  have  failed  to  admire  her,  alone  there 
and  out  in  the  open  fighting  quietly,  —  worn  and 
tired,  yet  still  resolute. 

"  So  good  of  you  to  come,"  muttered  the  stalwart 
figure,  in  a  weary,  listless  voice.  Her  eyes  raised 
themselves  to  the  face  of  each  newcomer;  yet  it  was 
only  with  an  effort  that  she  kept  them  there.  Her 
old  dull  aplomb  of  the  hostess  was  hers  yet,  though 

359 


CORRIE  WHO? 

even  more  awkward  and  repressed ;  and  her  greet 
ing,  such  as  it  was  in  its  cut  and  dried  precision, 
seemed  dragged  from  her  with  a  struggle.  At  other 
times,  she  had  added  to  her  hackneyed  expression 
some  trite  observation  about  the  weather,  or,  per 
haps,  a  question  whether  the  guest  found  himself  in 
good  health.  Now,  after  the  one  welcome  of  the 
"so  good  of  you  to  come,"  her  eyes  wandered 
dispiritedly;  and  the  newcomer,  left  stranded  on 
the  shores  of  civility,  either  faltered  an  unanswered 
commonplace  himself,  or,  confused  by  her  silence, 
straggled  away  in  bewilderment. 

"  Er  —  Mr.  Alfuente.  So  good  of  you  to  come." 
Mrs.  Pinchin's  dull  eyes  awoke  with  a  little  gleam 
of  remembrance,  and  instead  of  releasing  the  not  too 
tidy  musician's  hand,  she  clung  to  it  long  enough 
to  get  her  vague  thoughts  into  order.  "  Glad  I  saw 
you,  now,"  she  said  slowly ;  "  if  you  have  n't  any 
thing  for  to-morrow  morning,  come  up  here  and  see 
me.  I  want  to  talk  about  music  lessons  for  that  — 
that  girl.  Say  twelve  o'clock  about,  if  that  suits 
you."  The  Signore,  who  would  have  expressed  his, 
pleasure,  had  she  given  him  time,  felt  himself  gently 
propelled  onward  by  the  hand  that  still  held  his; 
and  Mrs.  Pinchin  turned  to  the  next  newcomer. 

"  So  good  of  you  —  "  She  stopped  as  her  eyes 
raised  themselves.  "  Hunh !  so  you  got  here,  did 
you?  " 

Miss  Freedlark,  her  pale,  fawning  eyes  playing  a 
duet  of  cheerfulness  with  her  grinning  teeth,  pranced 
ecstatically;  yet  before  she  had  a  chance  to  reply, 

360 


PHIL  AND  HIS  SINGULAR  UNCLE 

the  hostess  had  turned  indifferently  to  greet  the  next 
in  turn. 

Corrie  detached  her  shadowy  eyes  from  the  scene 
before  her,  and  looked  down  at  her  hands,  clasped 
together  in  her  lap.  She  sat  alone  to-night,  for  the 
gray,  mouse-like  figure  of  Miss  Maria  still  absented 
itself  from  Mrs.  Pinchin's.  When  Miss  Maria  would 
return  was  still  a  question.  Corrie  had  heard  only 
she  had  gone  to  the  country  on  a  visit,  but  beyond 
this,  Mrs.  Pinchin  had  not  seen  fit  to  enlighten  her. 
Nor  had  Corrie  asked  any  more,  for  between  her  and 
this  woman  who  had  been  found  to  be  her  mother, 
there  had  fallen  a  barrier  of  silence.  For  three  days 
now,  she  and  Corrie  had  met  only  at  meals,  or,  very 
occasionally,  in  the  halls,  the  stalwart  figure  clump 
ing  by  in  uneasy,  shifty-eyed  haste,  her  face  averted ; 
the  girl  shrinking  against  the  wall  to  give  her  a  clear 
passage.  It  was,  indeed,  a  sort  of  armed  truce,  in 
which  each  of  the  contending  forces  dared  make  no 
overt  move,  but  stood  waiting  at  arms  for  a  renewal 
of  the  hostilities.  At  the  table,  the  moody  figure  pre 
siding  over  it  buried  her  eyes  in  her  plate ;  and  when 
the  brooding  silence  was  broken,  it  was  only  to  ad 
dress  a  word  to  the  servant,  never  to  speak  to  the 
girl  who  sat  there,  mute  and  downcast  at  her  left. 
To-night,  rising  from  another  of  these  dogged, 
grisly  feasts  of  silence,  Mrs.  Pinchin  had  turned, 
and,  with  her  hand  resting  heavily  on  the  table's 
head,  had  spoken.  "  You  '11  be  there  —  in  the  draw 
ing-room,  won't  you,  when  the  guests  come?  "  There 
was  no  command  voiced,  or  indeed  meant,  in  what  she 

361 


CORRIE  WHO? 

said.  It  was,  instead,  a  tacit  admission  of  uncer 
tainty,  a  confession  of  weakness  as  plainly  spoken, 
as  if  framed  in  so  many  words.  "  Yes,  if  you  require 
it,"  the  girl  answered  negligently.  "  That 's  a  part 
of  my  duty,  isn't  it?"  But  Mrs.  Pinchin,  without 
replying,  had  scuttled  away  like  a  crab. 

So  Corrie  was  here  now,  dowdily  attired  as  of  yore, 
with  her  hair  snaked  back  into  a  knot  like  a  house 
maid's  done  up  for  the  morning. 

Again  the  room  had  filled  to  the  walls ;  each  pic 
ture  held  its  close  and  anxious  critic;  the  usual 
manoeuvering  resumed  itself  to  inspect  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin's  numerous  articles  of  vertu.  There,  too,  one 
saw  the  night's  selection  of  castaways  and  hermits 
marooned  in  their  chairs,  or  celled  discreetly  in  the 
corners.  "  So  good  of  you  to  come,  now,"  protested 
Mrs.  Pinchin,  greeting  the  last  of  the  guests ;  and 
across  the  room,  Corrie  could  hear  the  thick,  tired 
voice  still  making  its  effort.  The  woman  profusely 
shaking  the  hostess's  hand  had  lately  moved  into  the 
neighborhood,  she  and  her  husband  new  colonists 
from  what  one  may  call  —  not  the  middle  West,  but 
the  middling  West,  —  the  homes  of  whose  newly  rich 
add  so  much  to  the  stately,  studied  architecture  of 
Riverside  Drive.  She  came  to-night  fully  convinced 
she  was  making  handsome  strides  in  a  social  cam 
paign  aimed  upon  the  smart  set,  and  now  apologiz 
ing  anxiously  for  arriving  so  late,  was  twisting  each 
and  every  one  of  her  r's  into  a  doughnut,  while  the 
hostess  leered  at  her  curiously.  They  'd  had  to  wait 
on  the  carriage.  Her  husband  would  n't  leave  her 

362 


PHIL  AND  HIS  SINGULAR  UNCLE 

walk.  Then  when  the  hack  came,  they  'd  no  sooner 
got  in,  when  her  husband  wanted  out.  He  'd  for 
gotten  his  keys  which  they  'd  need  if  they  wanted 
in  before  the  servants  got  up  in  the  mawrning.  Mrs. 
Pinchin  was  still  leering  at  her,  when  Albion  at  the 
doorway  again  raised  his  lungs: 

"  Mr.  Stanton !  " 

Corrie's  eyes  leaped  up  swiftly  from  her  hands. 
Mrs.  Shadyside,  the  lady  with  the  convoluted  r's, 
had  been  gently  but  firmly  edged  on  into  the  draw 
ing-room's  crush,  and  was  now  gasping  disjointedly 
to  her  husband,  like  a  fat  carp  cast  up  on  the  beach 
by  the  tide.  Corrie  looked,  and,  as  the  lean,  hawk 
like  visage  of  Mr.  Stanton  disclosed  itself,  elegantly 
stroking  a  whisker  with  his  finger  tips,  the  last  tint 
of  color  in  her  face  went  out  and  left  her  pale  and 
wide-eyed. 

The  cool  eyes  quizzically  took  in  the  floral  dec 
orations  and  the  room's  crowding  guests. 

"Well,  madam  —  and  how  goes  it?" 

Mr.  Stanton  dropped  leisurely  into  the  chair  at 
Mrs.  Pinchin's  side,  and  as  leisurely  looked  around 
him.  There  had  been  no  other  greeting,  nor  did  Mrs. 
Pinchin  look  as  if  she  expected  one.  Her  dull  eyes 
had  leaped  with  a  momentary  fire  as  she  heard  his 
name  announced;  and  her  jaw  settled  itself  into  a 
more  pronounced  squareness ;  and  if  one  had  taken 
the  trouble,  at  that  instant,  to  study  Mrs.  Pinchin's 
face  intently,  one  would  have  detected  in  it  a  rather 
curious  expression.  Was  it  distaste  that  lurked  in 
Mrs.  Pinchin's  careful  eye,  or  was  it  even  a  more 

363 


CORRIE  WHO? 

substantial  feeling?  —  dislike,  say;  or  shall  one  be 
downright  about  it,  and  call  a  spade  a  spade?  That 
rancorous  gleam  flitted  balefully  from  her  eye,  glint 
ing  for  the  instant,  like  pale  lightning  in  a  thunder 
head;  and  there  was  Mrs.  Pinchin  licking  her  lips, 
as  if  the  taste  of  something  was  hard  to  cleanse 
from  her  mouth. 

"What  say?" 

Mr.  Stanton  looked  at  her  idly.  "  Oh,  how  goes 
it?  That  was  all,  my  dear."  As  Mrs.  Pinchin  made 
no  immediate  reply,  but  continued  to  peer  at  him, 
still  wetting  her  lips  as  if  fevered,  Mr.  Stanton  looked 
away  again.  "  Quite  an  evening  for  the  herd,  is  n't 
it  ?  "  he  observed  genially,  his  eyes  resting  with  a 
meaning  smile  first  on  the  guests,  and  then  on  the 
room's  decorations.  "  And  something  to  eat  for 
them,  after  they  have  pranced."  He  smiled  a  little 
more  broadly.  "  The  simple  pleasures  of  the  peas 
antry,"  said  Mr.  Stanton,  and  rippled  with  laughter 
at  the  thought. 

Again  the  leaping  fire  in  the  dull  eyes ;  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin  bit  her  lip.  Had  it  been  Miss  Maria,  instead, 
Miss  Maria  would  have  wept.  But  Mrs.  Pinchin,  bit 
ing  her  lip,  only  shook  a  little,  and  when  she  looked 
back  at  him,  her  nostrils  had  widened  ominously. 
"  If  you  don't  like  it,  then,"  she  remarked,  with  a 
slow  and  threatening  rancor,  "  what  brings  you 
here  so  often?  Oh  —  you  want  to  know  what  I 
mean  ?  Well,  I  tell  you  I  'm  tired  of  your  sneers. 
Tired  of  the  way  you  've  come  here  and  stuck  up 
your  nose  for  years.  Now,  if  you  don't  like  it,  clear 

364 


PHIL  AND  HIS  SINGULAR  UNCLE 

out  and  let  me  alone.  I  '11  keep  on  paying  up,  but 
you  need  n't  come  here." 

Mr.  Stanton  looked  up  with  a  quick  start  of  sur 
prise.  "  Oh,  come  now,  Judie !  "  he  expostulated. 

"  I  mean  it !  "  she  answered,  her  jaw  undershot,  and 
her  slumbrous  eyes  now  crackling  sparks  like  a  static 
discharge.  "  I  've  stood  it  as  long  as  I  'm  going  to." 

He  looked  into  her  face  sharply,  and  then  threw 
a  swift  glance  around  the  room.  "  What 's  wrong 
with  you  ?  "  he  demanded  under  his  breath ;  "  have 
you  told  me  all  that 's  happened?  Look  here!  "  He 
stared  at  her  an  instant,  a  searching  look,  alert 
and  suspicious.  "  What  really  went  on  the  other 
night,  Judie?  Are  you  holding  anything  back 
from  me  ?  " 

"  I  've  told  you  all  there  is  to  tell.  It 's  settled 
and  I  'm  not  going  to  talk  of  it  any  more.  But  you 
mind  what  I  say."  She  scowled  at  him  full  in  the 
face  as  she  said  it.  "  You  '11  be  civil  when  you  come 
here  —  or  you  won't  come  at  all." 

Mr.  Stanton  leaned  back,  and  again  began  pluck 
ing  at  his  silky  whiskers.  "  Phew,  Judie !  "  he  re 
marked,  after  a  thoughtful  pause ;  "  but  you  're  a 
queer  piece." 

Mrs.  Pinchin  made  no  answer.  She  sat  looking 
straight  ahead  of  her;  and  for  the  moment,  her 
guests,  and  her  own  required  duties  as  a  hostess, 
seemed  more  than  ever  to  be  forgotten.  At  length, 
however,  she  drew  a  deep  breath,  moved  uneasily, 
and  looked  up.  Her  eye  dully  swept  the  assemblage 
sitting  there,  and  then  awakened,  Mrs.  Pinchin  looked 

365 


CORRIE  WHO? 

about  her  nervously,  frowning  in  disquiet.  "Humh!" 
Lurching  to  her  feet,  she  stared  past  Mr.  Stanton 
to  the  corner  of  the  room,  and  there  her  eye  fell  on 
Corrie. 

The  girl  sat  with  her  fingers  still  clasped  together, 
and  her  gaze  fastened  on  the  man  by  Mrs.  Pinchin's 
side.  One  would  have  had  difficulty  to  read  what  lay 
behind  her  tense  expression ;  but  as  Mrs.  Pinchin 
lumbered  to  her  feet  she  detached  her  eyes  from  the 
man  and  turned  them  on  the  woman.  Then  one 
might  have  detected  a  little  shudder  starting  through 
her  slender  frame,  a  quiver  that  passed,  leaving  a 
deepened  pallor  on  her  face.  For  in  that  moment 
the  full  realization  came  to  Corrie,  and  she  knew, 
sensing  with  an  utter  submission  to  despair,  the  mis 
ery  of  her  plight. 

Mrs.  Pinchin,  unaided  except  by  her  stick,  heaved 
her  way  across' the  room.  She  was  breathing  harshly 
when  she  arrived.  "  Play  us  a  little  something,  won't 
you?  "  she  asked,  and  there  was  that  same  uncer 
tainty  and  downright  uneasiness  in  her  tone  now 
that  had  marked  her  recent  speech  to  the  girl.  Cor 
rie  arose,  and  made  her  way  to  the  piano,  heavy  and 
unresponsive;  Mrs.  Pinchin  stood  listening  to  a 
guest,  who  tried  to  engage  her  in  conversation,  and 
who,  it  seemed,  was  destined  to  make  but  poor  work 
of  it;  and  in  his  chair  beside  Mrs.  Pinchin's  aban 
doned  seat,  Mr.  Stanton,  the  elegant,  sat  and  nib 
bled  thoughtfully  at  his  fingers. 

Shall  it  be  told  that  Corrie  played  —  and  that 
Corrie  knew  what  she  was  playing?  Shall  it  be  said 

366 


PHIL  AND  HIS  SINGULAR  UNCLE 

she  forgot  all  else  in  the  harmony's  soothing  balm? 
It  is  true,  to  be  sure,  that  she  sat  at  the  piano,  and 
that  her  fingers,  trained  instinctively  to  the  work, 
wrenched  from  the  keyboard  certain  associations  and 
sequences  of  sound  that  may  have  passed  among 
Mrs.  Pinchin's  uncritical  guests  as  music.  But  to 
say  that  she  knew  what  she  played,  or  that  she  knew 
how  she  played  it,  were  no  more  true  than  if  one  said 
a  somnambulist  knows  what  he  is  doing  when  he  wan 
ders  in  a  trance.  For  though  the  score  before  her 
was  the  score  of  Lizst's  Rhapsodie  Hongroise;  and 
though  the  notes  the  piano  gave  forth  were  near 
enough  to  the  air  to  pass  muster,  Corrie's  eyes  were 
far  away  from  the  printed  notes  and  bars,  and  in 
Corrie's  heart  was  anything  but  song  —  the  rhyth 
mic,  throbbing  pulse  of  joy  and  life  that  breathes 
through  the  Abbe's  sensuous  motif. 

For  she  looked  at  the  man  who  sat  by  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin's  chair  nibbling  at  his  finger  tips ;  and  the  more 
she  pored  upon  the  lean  and  scornful  face,  hawklike 
in  its  aspect  of  intellectual  greed,  the  more  her  heart 
cried  out  in  rebellion  at  the  jest  that  life  had  played 
on  her.  Rough  on  Mrs.  Pinchin's  random  guest, 
,  we  '11  say,  but,  doubtless,  Mr.  Stanton  himself  would 
only  have  chuckled  lightly,  had  he  known. 

The  music  came  to  an  end  in  a  little  burst  of  po 
lite  applause;  and,  as  through  a  fog,  hazily,  Corrie 
saw  Mrs.  Pinchin  bearing  down  on  the  piano.  At 
her  heels,  the  rumpled  musician  followed,  twirling 
his  moustaches,  his  velvety  eyes  glowing  consciously ; 
and  as  Mr.  Alfuente  sometimes  worked  his  passage 

367 


CORRIE  WHO? 

—  to  use  the  expression  —  by  obliging  with  a  little 
music,  Corrie  arose  to  make  way  for  him. 

The  Signore,  after  widening  his  soulful  orbs  in  an 
other  stare  meant  to  be  alluring,  sat  himself  at  the 
piano.  "  Got  everything  you  want  ?  "  grunted  Mrs. 
Pinchin,  in  the  same,  tired  voice.  "  Here  you,  girl 
"  She  paused  uncomfortably,  realizing  appar 
ently  that  her  tone  was  the  old  surly,  commanding  one 
of  the  time  when  she  frankly  domineered.  "  I  mean  — 
will  you  see  Mr.  Alfuente  has  what  he  wants?  " 

She  went  back  to  her  chair  after  that,  ignoring 
Mr.  Stanton,  who,  by  this  time,  had  so  far  recovered 
himself  as  to  be  able  to  look  around  him  coolly ;  and 
leaning  on  her  stick,  sat  back  with  a  gentle  sigh. 
"  Tired?  "  asked  Mr.  Stanton,  casually;  but  as  Mrs. 
Pinchin  made  no  answer,  he  smiled  idly,  and  then  with 
a  less  confident  scowl,  went  at  his  finger-nibbling 
anew.  "  Oh,  suit  yourself ! "  sneered  Mr.  Stanton, 
and  said  no  more. 

Corrie,  after  mutely  pointing  out  the  music  in  the 
cabinet  beside  the  piano,  as  silently  departed,  leav 
ing  Mr.  Alfuente  staring  after  her  with  an  aston 
ished  and  rueful  frown.  However,  the  guests  waited, 
and  more  or  less  consoled  by  their  expectant  atten 
tion,  the  musician  turned,  and  directed  himself  to 
the  piano. 

How  the  girl  survived  the  evening's  ordeal,  even 
she  could  not  have  told.  She  sat  there  in  the  back 
ground,  as  self-effaced  as  a  Miss  Maria,  and  unaware 
of  what  went  on  about  her,  except  as  the  changing 
sights  and  sounds  of  Mrs.  Pinchin's  entertainment 

368 


PHIL  AND  HIS  SINGULAR  UNCLE 

came  to  her  like  vague  occurrences  of  a  dream.  There 
was  never  a  lack  of  volunteers,  such  as  they  were,  in 
the  lady's  drawing-room  assemblages ;  as  Mr.  Stan- 
ton  so  keenly  had  observed,  the  herd'  pranced  and 
with  no  small  degree  of  willingness.  "  Music  "  said 
Mrs.  Pinchin's  cards  in  the  lower  corner,  and  the 
hostess  had  never  been  called  to  pay  for  it  in  cash. 
To-night  there  would  be  what  afterward  Miss  Freed- 
lark  would  describe  fulsomely  as  a  collation;  the 
herd  would  prance  first,  and  then  it  would  be  fed. 
Mr.  Alfuente  obliged  with  a  first  number,  and  then 
two  successive  encores ;  on  the  heels  of  that,  there 
was  polite  conversation ;  and  then  a  lady  who  had 
hopes  —  deluding  hopes,  however  —  of  selling  Mrs. 
Pinchin  a  few  dozen  tickets  to  a  concert  she  was  giv 
ing,  got  up  and  sang.  More  conversation,  then; 
and  again  Mr.  Alfuente  obliged,  following  with  a 
double  encore,  once  more.  Afterwards,  there  was  a 
duet  by  the  lady  concert-giver  and  a  basso-profundo 
in  a  knotted  tie  stuck  into  his  shirt  front;  subse 
quently  came  the  promised  supper. 

As  Mrs.  Pinchin  arose  to  give  her  signal  to  her 
guests  —  to  those  whom  the  genial  Mr.  Stanton  had 
so  genially  likened  to  our  dumb  friends  —  her  eye 
again  wandered  toward  Corrie.  There  was  less  un 
certainty  in  the  signal  now,  for  the  girl,  as  Mrs. 
Pinchin  had  shrewdly  seen,  had  forced  upon  herself 
an  obedience  to  what  she  considered  her  line  of  duty. 
"Play!"  signaled  Mrs.  Pinchin's  lips,  as  she  jerked 
her  head  toward  the  piano;  and  again  Corrie 
drifted  across  the  room.  Her  face,  as  she  passed 
24  369 


CORRIE  WHO? 

the  finger-nibbler  in  his  chair,  was  white  and  expres 
sionless  ;  but  as  she  went  by  the  perturbed  Mr.  Stan- 
ton,  one  might  have  seen  her,  with  an  almost  imper 
ceptible  movement,  draw  her  skirt  aside  to  keep  it 
from  touching  his  outstretched  boot. 

Mrs.  Pinchin  turned  away  from  the  man,  who  was 
now  leisurely  rising;  but  Mr.  Stanton,  as  if  deter 
mined  not  to  be  put  out  by  her  haughtiness,  addressed 
a  smiling  observation  to  his  hostess  over  her  haughty 
shoulder.  "  May  I  esquire  the  Queen  of  the  May  ?  " 
inquired  Mr.  Stanton,  lightly,  "  or  shall  I  straggle 
in  with  the  peasantry?  " 

They  were,  in  that  moment,  alone,  hedged  in  on 
one  side  by  the  bank  of  palms ;  before  them,  a  little 
open  space  left  vacant  in  front  of  Mrs.  Pinchin's 
throne.  At  the  mocking  words,  a  ruddy  color  suf 
fused  her  neck  and  spread  to  her  leathery  cheeks ; 
Mrs.  Pinchin  turned  slowly  on  her  heel,  yet  by  the 
time  she  had  faced  her  sneering  guest,  there  had  been 
time  for  her  face  to  pale  shockingly.  "  I  told  you 
I  'd  not  stand  that  any  more,"  she  said  quietly,  under 
her  breath ;  "  are  you  contemptuous  of  this  house 
because  it  is  the  only  one  in  New  York  that  has  not 
shut  its  door  in  your  face?  The  time  's  come,  I  warn 
you,  when  you  sha'  n't  sneer  at  me  any  more,"  said 
Mrs.  Pinchin ;  and  looking  him  again  in  the  face,  she 
stumped  away  toward  the  dining  room,  leaving  Mr. 
Stanton  peering  after  her,  scarlet  and  disconcerted. 

Corrie  saw  the  moment's  conflict  and  awoke  suffi 
ciently  to  marvel.  The  guests,  streaming  away  in 
Mrs.  Pinchin's  wake,  flocked  through  the  double 

370 


PHIL  AND  HIS  SINGULAR  UNCLE 

doors ;  the  room  was  emptied,  yet  Mr.  Stanton  re 
mained,  still  tugging  furiously  at  his  whiskers.  Hid 
den  behind  the  sheets  of  music  on  the  rack,  Corrie 
watched,  her  hands,  by  instinct  only,  carrying  on 
the  task  of  beating  out  a  march  to  lead  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin's  guests  to  the  promised  feast;  and  as  she 
watched  she  saw  a  look  of  covert  wonder  and  dismay, 
perhaps  fear,  oust  every  other  expression  from  Mr. 
Stanton's  usually  scornful  features.  "  If  — "  he 
muttered  under  his  breath ;  and  then  saying  no  more, 
silently  thoughtful,  Mr.  Stanton  wandered  off  at  the 
heels  of  the  guests. 

The  girl's  head  sank  forward  dispiritedly,  and  the 
music  came  to  an  end.  There  were  no  tears  in  her 
eyes  as  she  rested  her  forehead  on  the  arm  raised  up 
to  the  piano's  edge;  she  had  not  been  able  yet  to 
find  in  her  arid  misery  the  woman's  solace  of  tears. 
But  why  weep  when  there  was  nothing  to  be  gained 
from  it?  Tears  were  not  a  thing  to  salve  a  woe  like 
hers.  Hour  by  hour,  she  might  pour  out  whole  tor 
rents  of  grief,  and  the  flood  might  rise  up  around  her 
till  she  stood  in  a  briny  ocean  of  tears ;  yet  when  the 
tears  were  shed  and  there  were  no  more  left  to  weep, 
there  would  be  still  that  same  implacable  shame  of 
woe  that  neither  time,  nor  tears,  nor  grief  ever  could 
assuage. 

"Corrie!" 

She  heard  the  whispered  name,  still  leaning  for 
ward  with  her  face  buried  in  her  arm.  For  the  in 
stant,  she  believed  it  only  an  echo  sprung  from  her 
disordered  thought. 

371 


CORRIE  WHO? 

"  Corrie !  —  Corrie,  dear!  " 

"  Oh  —  oh,  is  it  you!  " 

She  had  started  up  with  the  gasping  exclamation, 
a  moment's  color  flooding  her  cheeks  and  then  fading, 
until  in  each  cheek,  only  a  small,  blazing  spot  re 
mained.  "Phil!  —  Phil!"  she  whispered;  and  then 
forgetting  all  her  resolution,  the  decision  of  her  poor, 
frail  little  will  —  the  resolve  that  they  must  never 
see  each  other  again,  Corrie  forgot  utterly  what  she 
had  so  decided  must  be,  and  clung  desperately  to  his 
hands.  "  Oh,  Phil  —  boy,  boy !  "  she  whispered 
brokenly ;  "  I  can't  stand  it  much  longer." 

He  was  quiet  for  a  moment.  "  There  's  no  reason 
why  you  should,  dear,"  he  answered  slowly ;  "  that 's 
why  I  have  been  waiting  here  so  long." 

"  Waiting  so  long?  I  don't  think  I  understand." 
She  raised  her  tired  face  to  look  at  him  dully. 

"  Did  n't  you  see  me  when  I  came  in  ?  I  've  been 
here  more  than  an  hour  —  upstairs,  waiting.  Cor 
rie,  why  would  n't  you  see  me  this  morning  —  and  yes 
terday —  and  the  day  before?  You  wouldn't  even 
answer  my  letters." 

"  No  —  I  know."  She  sat  back  from  him,  listless 
and  dreary  again.  "  You  must  n't  worry  me,  Phil. 
I  've  said  I  could  n't  stand  it  much  longer ;  to  see 
you  makes  it  all  the  harder.  Won't  you  go  away 
and  not  trouble  me  so?  To  live  here  and  to  have 
always  to  face  what  I  know  is  bad  enough,  but,  Phil 
—  go  away,  Phil  —  and  please,  please  don't  come 
back  again.  I  won't  be  able  to  stand  it  if  you  don't 
let  me  forget." 

372 


PHIL  AND  HIS  SINGULAR  UNCLE 

He  waited  until  she  had  grown  calm  again.  "  I 
don't  want  you  to  forget,  dear,  if  it  means  forget 
ting  me.  And  I  can't  stay  away,  as  you  ask."  He 
looked  down  at  her,  smiling  gently.  "  Corrie,  I  can't; 
and  that 's  the  plain  truth  of  it.  Dear,  listen  to  me. 
Come  away  from  this  place.  Come  away  with  me, 
to-night.  Will  you,  dear?  Oh,  Corrie,  I  can't  leave 
you  here ! " 

She  shrank  back  further,  frightened  and  trembling. 
He  tried  to  take  her  hand  and  she  drew  it  away. 

"  Will  you  go  with  me  and  be  married?  "  he  asked 
again ;  but  Corrie  had  begun  shaking  her  head  wildly 
as  soon  as  his  lips  formed  the  words. 

"No  — no,  Phil!" 

"  You  must,  Corrie ;  why  won't  you  ?  "  and  then 
the  inevitable  complaint  of  hot-headed  youth  and 
love  —  "Don't  you  care  for  me  enough?" 

"  And  face  your  mother  when  I  've  dragged  you 
down  to  me?  "  she  questioned,  forcing  out  the  words: 
"  No,  Phil ;  not  that,  either  for  your  sake  or  mine. 
Haven't  I  said  I  love  you  too  much  for  that? 
For  the  sake  of  both  of  us,  I  can't  do  it.  Don't  ask 
me  to  tell  you  so  again  —  ever  —  ever,  Phil.  Be 
cause  if  you Why,  what  is  it  ?  " 

She  broke  off,  looking  up  at  him  wonderingly,  per 
haps  a  little  frightened,  for  so  far  from  looking  at 
her,  he  had  raised  his  head  to  stare  across  the  room 
to  the  corner  where  heavy  draperies  hung  over  a 
door.  Through  the  curtains  a  face  peered  idly  for 
a  moment,  and  then  a  man  stepped  forward  into  the 
room. 

373 


CORRIE  WHO? 

It  was  Mr.  Stanton,  and  he  did  not  see  the  two  at 
the  piano,  —  or,  if  he  did,  he  did  not  realize. 

"Phil!     What  is  it?" 

Then  she  saw,  and  with  a  shrill  breath,  sat  back 
and  watched. 

A  palm  at  the  piano's  side  hid  the  boy  as  he  stood 
upright;  the  man  thoughtfully  pacing  the  room's 
other  end  could  not  see  him.  In  the  boy's  face  was 
wonder,  startled  and  bewildering;  then  his  hands 
clenched  themselves  together  at  his  side  with  a  start 
of  understanding.  Waiting  a  moment,  he  walked 
swiftly  and  noiselessly  across  the  floor;  and  at  that 
moment  Mr.  Stanton  had  turned,  still  thoughtfully, 
to  stare  at  the  wall  before  him.  Something  troubled 
Mrs.  Pinchin's  usually  cool  and  confident  friend,  as 
one  might  have  seen  from  the  scowl  in  his  eyes  and 
-the  ruffling  of  his  brows.  Doubtless,  Mr.  Stanton 
had  excellent  reasons  for  feeling  troubled.  For 
years  he  had  dominated  Mrs.  Pinchin's  home  as  if 
he  were  the  genius  of  the  place,  and  as  if  all  within  it 
should  cringe  at  a  snap  of  his  elegant  fingers.  Now 
his  reign  seemed  tottering  —  and  why  ?  The  young 
man  going  toward  him,  reached  out  a  hand  and 
gripped  Mr.  Stanton  by  the  shoulder. 

"  Let 's  have  a  look  at  you,"  said  Phil  Geikie, 
whirling  around  his  astonished  captive  till  they  were 
face  to  face.  "  So  it 's  Mr.  Stanwood  Geikie,  is  it  ? 
—  my  dear  Uncle  Stanwood !  " 

In  that  sudden  juncture  of  alarm  and  rage,  the 
hawklike  face  lost  its  usual  habit  of  scornful  aplomb, 
and  convulsed  itself  into  an  ugly  scowl.  "  Hands 

374 


PHIL  AND  HIS  SINGULAR  UNCLE 

off,  you  young  cub !  "  snarled  Mr.  Stanton ;  or,  more 
properly  speaking,  Mr.  Stanwood  Geikie.  For  it 
was  he,  indeed,  —  Mr.  Stanwood  Geikie,  —  who  had 
so  long  paraded  under  the  alias  of  Mr.  Stanton. 
"Hands  off,  I  say!" 

His  nephew,  having  satisfied  himself  as  to  Mr. 
Stanton's  real  identity  —  this  Mr.  Stanton  whom  he 
had  for  days  suspected  in  Corrie's  chance  references 
to  him  —  having  satisfied  himself  of  this,  Phil  flung 
him  loose  with  a  gesture  that  drove  Uncle  Stanwood 
floundering  against  the  wall.  "  You  young  whelp !  " 
the  man  growled,  and  Phil  laughed  at  him  mirthlessly, 
with  a  scorn  that  sent  the  blood  mounting  into  the 
hawklike  face.  "  You  young  whelp !  I  '11  make  you 
pay  for  this !  "  he  cried  between  his  teeth,  savagely. 
Corrie  looked  on  helplessly. 

For  until  to-night,  the  girl  had  never  so  much  as 
dreamed  the  real  significance  of  Mr.  Stanton's 
presence  in  that  curious  household.  At  times,  of 
course,  she  indeed  suspected  he  had  some  connection 
with  the  mystery  —  there  were,  for  example,  those 
instances  when  Mr.  Stanton  had  shown  his  interest 
in  Mrs.  Pinchin's  affairs:  The  morning  hour  when 
she  had  caught  Mr.  Stanton  fumbling  at  the  door  of 
Mrs.  Pinchin's  private  room,  and  when  afterwards, 
he  and  Miss  Maria  had  provided  their  curious  en 
counter  on  the  stairs ;  there  was  the  equally  meaning 
occasion,  too,  when  Mr.  Stanton,  having  seen  the 
advertisement,  had  come  running  to  Mrs.  Pinchin's 
home;  and,  to  top  it  all  off  with  another  singular 
event,  one  recalls  the  moment  when  the  man,  brushing 

375 


CORRIE  WHO? 

by  Miss  Freedlark — Miss  Fishhawk,  as  he  had  called 
her  then  —  had  forced  his  way  into  Mrs.  Pinchin's 
early  hour  privacy.  But  dulled  and  bemused  by  all 
the  other  happenings  that  had  crowded  in  on  her, 
Corrie  had  failed  to  grasp  his  real  identity ;  so  Mr. 
Stanton,  announced  suddenly  at  the  drawing-room 
door,  had  as  suddenly  revealed  himself  to  Corrie  in 
his  true  relation  both  to  her  and  Mrs.  Pinchin.  For, 
in  so  many  words,  Mr.  Stanton  was  her  father. 

But  Phil  had  known  —  or,  rather,  he  had  guessed. 
"  So  it 's  my  dear  Uncle  Stanwood,  is  it,"  he 
laughed  scornfully,  "  who  's  been  setting  his  friend, 
Mrs.  Pinchin,  on  my  trail?  And  what  do  they  hope 
to  gain  by  their  cleverness?  I'll  wager  it's  some 
thing  clever,  anyway.  Speak  up,  Uncle  Stan ;  what 
is  the  swindle?  "  He  stepped  nearer  as  he  spoke,  and 
the  contemptuous  laugh  went  out  of  his  face,  and 
left  him  white,  with  his  jaw  squared  determinedly. 
"Answer  me!  What  is  your  scoundrelly  game?"  he 
gritted  out,  his  eyes  going  threateningly  to  Uncle 
Stanwood's  tall  collar,  as  if  at  the  next  move  he 
meant  to  pin  him  to  the  wall  by  the  throat. 

But  Uncle  Stanwood  was  not  one  who  lacked 
courage  —  physical  courage,  at  all  events.  He  re 
mained  where  he  was  without  moving,  and  a  faint, 
mocking  smile  curled  his  lip,  a  grin  insolent  and  cool. 
It  were  as  if  Uncle  Stanwood  found  himself  at  his 
best  and  was  enj  oying  it.  "  No,  —  you  won't  dare 
answer,"  said  Phil  again,  scornfully,  and  turned 
away  from  him. 

Then  the  man  leaning  against  the  wall  said 
376 


PHIL  AND  HIS  SINGULAR  UNCLE 

something  beneath  his  breath,  and  what  happened 
afterward  was  very  swift.  But  quick  as  the  swing 
ing  forward  of  one  form  against  the  other,  Corrie 
was  almost  as  quick.  She  was  able,  at  all  events, 
to  stay  what  else  might  have  happened  in  Mrs. 
Pinchin's  drawing-room  had  she  not  been  there  to 
prevent  it. 

"  No  —  no,  no !  It 's  abominable,  and  you  can't ! 
Can't !  Can't ! "  she  cried,  fiercely  sobbing  it. 
"Don't  you  realize  who  he  is?  I  tell  you,  you  shall 
not !  Let  him  go !  " 

The  boy,  white  and  shaking,  flung  the  man  away 
from  him  again.  "  Did  you  hear  what  he  said?  The 
dog !  "  he  growled.  "  It  was  about  my  father." 

Corrie  pushed  him  aside.  "  You  must  go  —  go 
home,  Mr.  Stanton,"  she  whispered,  panting  with 
terror  and  excitement.  "  Get  your  hat  and  coat, 
please,  and  go  quickly.  The  others  will  be  coming 
in  here.  They  must  not  see  you." 

Mr.  Stanton  —  or  Stanwood  Geikie,  if  you  choose 
—  gave  his  nephew  another  mocking  sneer  and  went. 
The  hangings  dropped  behind  him,  and  then  Corrie 
turned  to  the  boy. 

"Phil  —  oh,  my  heart's  just  breaking!"  she 
wailed,  and  buried  her  face  in  her  arm,  when  for  the 
first  time,  now,  the  tears  came  streaming,  abjectly 
and  with  no  courage  left  to  restrain  them. 

"Will  you  go  with  me  —  to-night?"  he  asked. 
There  was  no  answer.  "  Will  you  go  ?  "  he  asked 
again,  and  stood  waiting  until  there  should  be  a  lull 
in  her  storm  of  woe.  Still  she  made  no  reply;  and 

377 


CORRIE  WHO? 

out  in  the  hall  footfalls  sounded  on  the  stairs;  the 
door  slammed  as  Mr.  Stanton  departed  for  the  night. 
Then  Corrie  raised  her  face. 

"  Give  me  a  little  time  to  think,  Phil.  I  can't  drag 
you  down  like  this,  when  you  have  everything  before 
you.  Let  me  try  to  reason  it  out.  I  know  it 's 
wrong  —  wicked  of  me ;  but  I  'd  like  to  think  of  it 
a  little  while.  Just  to  think  of  it,  Phil,  if  nothing 
else.  Go  now,  won't  you?  " 

"  And  shall  I  come  back?  " 

"  Yes,  but  please,  please  go !  " 

Out  in  the  dining  room,  the  feast  had  progressed 
as  far  as  the  salad.  Two  of  the  menservants,  pass 
ing  around  among  the  guests  at  the  half-dozen  small 
tables,  offered  it  on  large  platters ;  and  at  their  heels 
came  a  third,  pouring  wine. 

Mrs.  Pinchin  sat  enthroned  at  a  table  in  the  bay 
window,  darkly  surveying  the  feast.  Three  others 
sat  with  her;  the  new  millionaire  and  his  wife  from 
Riverside  Drive,  and  Mr.  Alfuente,  who  had  been 
beckoned,  greatly  to  his  own  astonishment,  to  take 
the  seat  when  the  hostess  had  seen  Mr.  Stanton  bear 
ing  down  upon  it.  And  now  that  Mr.  Stanton  had 
departed  peevishly,  Mrs.  Pinchin  found  herself  able 
to  give  full  attention  to  her  banquet ;  so  she  sat  there 
on  the  alert. 

"  Out  home,"  said  the  lady  from  the  middling 
West,  "  we  always  put  green  peas  in  our  chicken 
salad." 

Mrs.  Pinchin  gave  no  heed.  Her  eye  was  on  the 
378 


PHIL  AND  HIS  SINGULAR  UNCLE 

waiter  with  the  champagne ;  and  when  he  drew  nearer, 
she  beckoned  to  him  energetically. 

"  Yes,  madam." 

Mrs.  Pinchin  twitched  him  by  the  sleeve  till  his  ear 
was  on  a  level  with  her  mouth.  "  Don't  give  those 
others  more  than  one  round  of  the  champagne.  If 
they  ask  for  it,  fill  them  up  on  the  burgundy.  Cham 
pagne  for  us  here,  though,  as  long  as  we  want  it  — 
at  this  table,  you  understand." 

"Yes,  madam." 

Mrs.  Pinchin  turned  to  the  lady  at  her  side.  "  Ex 
cuse  me;  I  was  thinking  about  sending  in  a  plate  of 
food  for  my  paid  companion.  What  was  it  you  were 
saying?  " 


379 


CHAPTER   XIX 

Early  morning  in  Seventy-fifth  Street,  and  the  return  of  Miss 
Maria.  —  Her  piteous  appeal  to  Carrie.  —  The  dead 
child.  —  Mrs.  Pinchin  returns  to  her  old  self.  —  Corrie 
visits  her  aunt.  —  The  shape  sitting  in  the  gloom.  — 
Mrs.  Pinchin  decides  to  explain.  —  The  stolen  papers 
and  the  scene  in  the  private  room.  —  Mrs.  Pinchin  hat 
her  promised  stroke  at  last. 

MONDAY  —  a  bright  April  morning  —  and  the 
day  after  Mrs.  Pinchin's  notable  Sunday  even 
ing.  In  West  Seventy-fifth  Street,  the  first  house 
maids  after  the  dawn  had  just  begun  their  early 
matinal  labors  of  sweeping  off  the  stoops,  when  a 
gray,  patient,  weary  figure  alighted  from  a  Columbus 
Avenue  car,  and  came  toiling  along  the  sidewalk. 
In  the  slight  form,  stoop-shouldered,  frail,  and  dowd- 
ily  attired,  one  detected  something  known  and  fa 
miliar;  and  though  the  features  were  obscured  by  a 
thick  draping  of  voile,  there  was  a  hint  from  behind 
the  fabric  of  gold-framed  spectacles,  of  uneasy,  tired 
eyes.  They  were  red-rimmed  eyes,  too  —  forlorn 
and  pitiable ;  for  this  was  Miss  Maria,  who  had  come 
home  at  last. 

Early  as  the  hour  was,  Corrie  had  already  risen. 
Sleep  had  not  restored  her  to  the  usual  freshness  and 
spirit  that  youth  enj  oys  after  a  night's  repose ;  for, 
if  the  truth  be  told,  Corrie  had  neither  reposed  nor 
slept,  but  through  the  greater  part  of  the  night  had 

380 


THE  STOLEN  PAPERS 

sat  up  in  bed  in  the  dark,  her  chin  in  her  hand,  and 
her  mind  battling  with  thoughts  from  which  there 
was  to  be  no  escape  even  in  slumber.  Now,  wan  and 
slow,  she  came  down  the  stairs  in  Mrs.  Pinchin's  at 
that  exact  and  precise  moment  when  the  other  figure, 
also  slow  and  wan,  dragged  herself  up  the  stairs 
outside. 

Mounting  like  one  that  treads  a  ladder  to  the  gal 
lows,  Miss  Maria  blindly  fumbled  for  the  bell;  and 
then,  after  she  had  rung,  what  little  strength  she 
possessed  seemed  to  leave  her.  Pushing  back  her 
veil,  she  leaned  against  the  wall  of  the  vestibule,  and 
gagged  with  a  sob  that  racked  her  from  head  to  foot. 
Poor  thing!  Poor,  dejected  creature!  For  though 
hers  was  a  nature  always  ready  at  the  first  cloud  of 
trouble  to  turn  on  the  waterworks,  her  grief  now 
appeared  to  be  of  a  profundity  too  great  to  remedy 
itself  in  the  usual  solace  of  tears.  So  there  she  was, 
leaning  against  the  wall,  her  face  filled  with  woe  and 
her  slight  figure  bent  over  like  one  that  bears  a  too 
heavy  burden  up  the  hill. 

"  Why,  —  Miss  Maria  !  " 

The  gray  figure  turned  dumbly  and  swayed  into 
the  hall.  She  looked  at  Corrie  dully,  in  her  eyes  that 
fixity  of  expression  one  notes  in  the  staring  orbs  of 
a  sleepwalker.  "  My  —  Is  Judie  —  Mrs.  Pinchin  — 
is  she  down  yet?  "  Before  Corrie  could  answer,  Miss 
Maria  gave  a  little  shake  of  remembrance.  "  Oh, 
no  —  of  course.  I  must  go  to  her.  I  must  go  to 
her." 

She  thrust  back  her  veil  a  little  further,  and  turned 
381 


CORRIE  WHO? 

her  dry,  hazy  eyes  on  the  staircase,  as  if  measuring 
her  weakness  against  the  strength  it  would  require 
to  drag  herself  to  the  floor  above.  Then  she  made 
the  effort,  and  halfway  down  the  hall  swayed, 
and  but  for  her  outstretched  hand  supporting 
herself  against  the  wall,  Miss  Maria  might  have 
fallen. 

"  Oh !  —  let  me  help  you.  Are  you  ill  ?  "  cried 
Corrie,  alarmed. 

Miss  Maria  smiled  miserably.  "  I  can't  do  it.  I 
can't  walk  up  those  stairs.  Why,  I  have  n't  strength 
enough." 

She  swayed  again,  and  Corrie  put  an  arm  around 
her.  "  You  must  sit  down.  Here,  lean  on  me. 
There 's  a  chair  over  there.  Oh !  she 's  going  to 
faint !  "  cried  Corrie. 

But  Miss  Maria,  once  she  had  reached  the  chair, 
recovered  herself.  "  You  must  help  me  —  I  've  got 
to  see  her  —  up  the  stairs,"  she  mumbled  brokenly. 
"  I  don't  think  I  can  do  it  alone." 

"  Poor,  poor  lady !  —  you  can't !  You  must  sit 
here  till  you  're  stronger.  Oh,  Miss  Maria !  what  has 
happened  to  you?  " 

Maggie,  the  waitress,  in  morning  disarray,  looked 
out  from  the  pantry,  staring  when  she  saw  the  pic 
ture  in  the  hall.  "  Maggie !  "  Corrie  called  to  her 
excitedly,  "  go  tell  Mrs.  Pinchin.  Rap  on  her  door 
till  you  rouse  her.  Poor,  poor  lady ! "  murmured 
Corrie,  trying  to  undo  Miss  Maria's  wraps,  as  the 
limp  form  shrank  down  in  the  chair.  "  There !  Now 
let  me  get  off  your  hat,  too." 

382 


THE  STOLEN  PAPERS 

Then  Miss  Maria,  gagging  again,  shook  out  a  sob 
that  seemed  at  last  to  break  open  the  springs  of 
grief;  and  with  the  hot  tears  pouring  down  her 
face,  she  clutched  at  Corrie's  hands.  "  Oh,  be  kind 

—  kind  to  me !  —  just  a  little  kind !  "  she  wailed,  and 
clung  to  the  girl.     "  But  you  are  kind,  aren't  you? 

—  and  I  think  it  breaks  my  heart,  too.     Oh,  Corrie ! 
I  have  n't  always  been  wicked  and  cruel.     I  did  n't 
mean  to  be.     No  —  no,  no !  "  wept  Miss  Maria,  in  a 
choking  voice.     "  I  've  been  a  little  good  —  a  little 
kind,  too,  have  n't  I,  Corrie  ?     Tell  me  I  have  n't  al 
ways  been  cruel  and  wicked,  because  I  —  I  did  n't 
mean  to  be !  —  not  always." 

"  What  is  this?  "  gurgled  a  thick,  freezing  voice. 
"  Maria!  " 

In  the  emotion  of  that  strained  moment  neither 
had  heard  Mrs.  Pinchin  stumping  down  the  stairs. 
She  stood  now  above  them,  a  hand  on  the  balusters, 
the  other  gripping  her  cane;  and  her  face  was 
white  and  angry.  Whether  she  had  heard  Miss 
Maria's  hysterical  plea,  and  whether  it  alone  was  to 
explain  her  wrath  and  alarm,  was  a  matter  Corrie 
could  not  know.  But  it  was  still  a  fact  —  and  a 
singular  one,  into  the  bargain  —  that  Miss  Maria,  at 
the  first  word,  crouched  down  in  her  seat  silenced, 
and  then,  as  if  recalling  what  had  brought  her  home, 
she  got  to  her  feet,  and  with  her  hands  outstretched, 
plunged  toward  the  thunder-faced  woman  on  the 
stairs. 

"Oh,  Judie  — Judie!  It's  all,  all  over!  My 
baby  's  gone.  She  died  at  midnight.  Be  good  to  me 

383 


CORRIE  WHO? 

—  a  little  kind.     I  had  to  come  to  you !    Oh,  Judie, 
Judie !  —  because  my  heart  is  broken." 

The  wrath  died  instantly  out  of  Mrs.  Pinchin's 
face;  she  appeared  to  understand.  "Gone?"  she 
cried  in  an  undertone.  "  Oh-h !  "  said  Mrs.  Pinchin, 
in  a  rumbling  voice  that  was  almost,  if  not  quite,  a 
groan.  "  GONE !  "  she  repeated,  and  with  that  still 
echoing  hollowly  in  her  throat,  Mrs.  Pinchin  hobbled 
down  the  few  remaining  stairs ;  and  with  the  first 
show  of  tenderness  and  compassion  Corrie  had  ever 
known  her  to  reveal,  she  reached  out  her  arms  and 
drew  the  wailing,  clinging  Miss  Maria  to  her  breast. 
"  My  poor,  poor  girl !  "  uttered  Mrs.  Pinchin ;  and 
then  a  single  tear  gemmed  her  puffy  eyelid,  and 
like  at  least  one  drop  of  the  gentle  rain  of  heaven, 
fell  in  its  quality  of  mercy,  twice-blessed,  on  the  head 
buried  in  her  arms.  "  There !  there !  —  Hush !  " 
soothed  Mrs.  Pinchin.  "  Come,  now ;  I  '11  take  you 
up  to  your  room,"  she  said ;  and  putting  a  stalwart 
arm  around  the  other's  shoulders,  she  waved  Corrie 
away  with  a  fierce  toss  of  her  head;  and  turned 
slowly  to  the  stairs.  Step  by  step  upward,  her  hand 
gripping  the  rail,  Mrs.  Pinchin  climbed,  lurching 
powerfully  at  every  tread,  and  with  each  lurch,  drag 
ging  Miss  Maria  with  her.  "  Poor,  poor  girl !  " 
croaked  Mrs.  Pinchin ;  and  then  the  two  passed  from 
sight  around  the  bend  of  the  stair. 

But  as  Corrie  turned  away,  she  heard  one  last  wail 
break  sobbingly  from  Miss  Maria's  lips.  "  Oh,  Judie 

—  dear  Judie !     Now  say  you  '11  give  it  up !     Say 
you  're  willing  now !  " 

384 


THE  STOLEN  PAPERS 

"  Hush ! "  answered  Mrs.  Pinchin,  in  her  mannish 
voice. 

That  Monday  morning  Corrie  breakfasted  alone. 
Not  that  she  ate  or  was  able  to  eat ;  for  after  chip 
ping  the  morning's  egg,  she  sat  back  and  stared  at 
it  reflectively.  Upstairs,  in  her  room,  Miss  Maria 
had  been  put  to  bed;  and  Mrs.  Pinchin,  sitting  be 
side  the  sufferer,  had  ordered  a  tray  sent  up  for  her 
self.  On  the  tray  were  fruit,  oatmeal,  a  bit  of 

But  never  mind.  Two  hours  passed,  and  then  Mrs. 
Pinchin  emerged,  bearing  the  tray  in  her  hands. 

"  Order  my  carriage  at  once,"  she  said,  and  in  the 
command  there  remained  none  of  the  placating  un 
certainty  that  had  accented  her  speech  during  these 
last  trying  days.  Instead,  there  was  the  old  force, 
the  familiar,  masterful  decisiveness ;  in  that  brief 
though  vital  moment,  Mrs.  Pinchin  fully  appeared 
to  have  come  into  her  own  again.  "  Take  this,"  she 
ordered,  and  thrust  the  tray  into  Corrie's  hands. 
"  And  telephone  at  once  to  the  stable.  I  'm  in  a 
hurry." 

"  Shall  I  stay  with  Miss  Maria  while  you  're  out  ?  " 
asked  Corrie,  patiently. 

"  No,"  grunted  Mrs.  Pinchin,  crisply.  "  No ; 
keep  out  of  here,"  she  growled;  and  then  with  a 
stare,  she  retreated  backwards  into  the  darkened 
room,  and  closed  the  door  with  a  slam. 

Corrie,  after  telephoning,  strayed  into  the  drawing- 
room,  where  she  looked  from  the  front  windows  a 
while.  Afterwards,  she  wandered  thoughtfully  into  a 
25  385 


CORRIE  WHO? 

dim  corner,  where  she  sat  down  and  frowned.  In  ad 
dition,  she  bit  her  lip  nervously,  and  presently,  she 
got  up  and  paced  the  floor,  her  head  lowered  in  cogi 
tation.  "  Shall  I  ?  "  she  murmured  to  herself,  and 
a  half  hour  passed.  Then  Mrs.  Pinchin's  brougham 
arrived  at  the  door  and  Corrie  looked  up  with  a 
nod.  "  Yes,  I  will !  "  said  Corrie,  pressing  her  lips 
together  firmly;  and  pushing  aside  the  draperies  at 
the  door,  she  walked  out  into  the  hall. 

Mrs.  Pinchin,  attired  in  a  black  turban,  a  black 
wrap,  black  gloves,  and  a  sable  veil,  was  coming  down 
the  stairs.  She  looked  at  Corrie  roughly,  grunted, 
and  pushed  on  toward  the  door. 

"  May  I  do  anything  for  Miss  Maria  ?  "  asked  the 
girl,  quietly. 

"  No !  "   grunted  Mrs.   Pinchin,  stalking  on. 

"Do  you  think  she'd  like  some  broth?"  inquired 
Corrie,  hopefully. 

"  No !  "  growled  Mrs.  Pinchin.  "  No !  stop  both 
ering  me,"  she  rumbled.  "  I  tell  you,  no !  " 

"  Oh !  "  murmured  Corrie ;  and  then  the  street  door 
banged,  as  Mrs.  Pinchin,  all  in  black,  blackly  went 
on  her  way. 

"  Well,"  murmured  Corrie,  reflectively.  Biting 
her  lip  again,  she  slowly  climbed  the  staircase.  "  I 
will !  "  she  said  with  determination,  going  up ;  and 
ten  minutes  later,  when  she  appeared  in  hat  and 
jacket,  "  I  will !  —  I  just  will !  "  said  Corrie,  coming 
down.  "  I  '11  hear  what  she  says,  anyway." 

If  Corrie,  at  the  precise  moment  she  came  down 
the  steps  of  Mrs.  Pinchin's,  had  thought  to  look 

386 


THE  STOLEN  PAPERS 

toward  the  distant  avenue,  her  eye,  perchance,  might 
have  descried  a  well-known  figure  now  hurrying  along 
the  sidewalk.  It  was  a  man's  figure,  and  one  needed 
only  a  single  glance  at  the  hawklike  features  and  the 
iron-gray  whiskers  of  a  past  fashion,  to  identify  the 
person  as  Mrs.  Pinchin's  familiar  guest.  Once  more, 
too,  Uncle  Stanwood,  alias  Mr.  Stanton,  walked  as 
if  he  were  in  an  un-Chesterfieldian  hurry,  such  was 
the  speed  with  which  he  darted  along  close  to  the 
area  railings.  But  the  very  instant  the  spry,  cool 
eyes  clapped  themselves  on  the  girl  coming  down 
the  steps  of  the  house  for  which  he  himself  was  aim 
ing,  the  gentleman  halted  abruptly ;  and  for  the 
briefest  fraction  of  time,  it  looked  as  if  he  even  con 
templated  flight. 

But  after  all,  there  was  no  real  cause,  unless  it 
were  the  movings  of  his  own  conscience,  to  provoke 
Uncle  Stanwood  into  a  panic.  Corrie,  with  her  eyes 
lowered  thoughtfully,  slowly  descended  the  steps; 
a  few  minutes  later,  apparently  to  his  very  great  re 
lief,  she  turned  the  corner  on  her  way  to  the  Seventy- 
second  Street  station  of  the  L  road.  Then  the 
gentleman  bustled  along  again,  leaving  Corrie  quite 
ignorant  of  this  amusing  little  by-play. 

But  at  this  juncture,  the  troubled  girl  was  in  no 
mood  to  have  enjoyed  either  Uncle  Stanwood's  ca 
prices  or  any  other  evidence  of  his  spry  and  singular 
nature.  A  Sixth  Avenue  train  was  just  drawing  up 
to  the  platform  as  she  arrived  there;  and  again  ir 
resolution  marked  itself  in  her  face.  "  Shall  I,  or 
shall  I  not?  "  It  appeared  to  be  a  remarkably  por- 

387 


CORRIE  WHO? 

tentous  question  at  the  minute;  and  hesitating 
whether  she  should  board  the  train  or  not,  she  was 
struggling  back  from  the  crowd  rushing  for  the  cars, 
when  the  gentlemanly  guard  helped  her  to  make  up 
her  mind.  "  Both  gates,  there !  Step  lively  now !  " 
roared  the  polite  functionary,  furiously  rattling  the 
ironwork ;  "  's  a  Bat'ry  'rain,"  or  words  to  that 
effect;  and  so  Corrie  drifted  aboard,  urged  irreso 
lutely  by  his  exhortation. 

The  frown  of  disquiet,  however,  remained  on  her 
face  as  she  rode  southward.  At  Fifty-ninth  Street 
it  had  grown  deep ;  at  Fifty-third  Street,  where 
the  train  swung  eastward  to  Sixth  Avenue,  it  had 
grown  deeper.  At  Fiftieth  Street,  where  the  guard 
put  in  a  scowling  face  to  announce  the  station,  Cor 
rie  scowled  back  at  him  frankly.  At  Forty-second 
Street,  the  cloud  had  spread  over  the  entire  horizon 
of  her  thought;  but  after  passing  Thirty -third 
Street,  there  appeared  a  rift  in  the  sky,  just  a 
little  glimpse  of  sunshine,  gleaming  weakly  through 
the  vapors.  Then  came  the  successive  stages  — 
Twenty-eighth  Street,  Twenty-third,  and  Eigh 
teenth  Street;  at  Eighteenth  Street,  the  heavens 
began  to  clear.  "  Fourteenth  Street ! "  bawled 
the  guard,  and  Corrie  looked  up  nodding  to  her 
self.  Arising,  she  walked  down  the  car  aisle 
at  the  heels  of  the  mob  struggling  to  get  off, 
and  took  a  seat  near  the  door.  At  Eighth  Street 
—  "  Wythth  Street !  "  sneered  the  guard  —  she 
alighted,  walked  down  to  the  street,  and  having 
edged  over  far  enough  to  see  the  clock  on  Jef- 

388 


THE  STOLEN  PAPERS 

ferson  Market  tower,  she  looked  up,  studying  its 
face. 

"  A  quarter  of,"  she  murmured  to  herself. 
"  Well,  anyway,  she  's  my  aunt !  " 

Having  uttered  this  cryptic  remark,  she  turned, 
and  with  her  face  set  in  decision,  crossed  Greenwich 
Avenue,  and  hurried  along  the  crooked  detour  of 
Tenth  Street. 

For  Corrie's  mission  was  an  adventurous  one. 
Since  the  hour  when  Mr.  Biggamore  had  repeated  his 
interview  with  Miss  Tollabee,  and  at  the  same  time 
had  revealed  not  only  the  fact  that  Miss  Tollabee  was 
Corrie's  aunt,  but  that  Mrs.  Pinchin  was  Corrie's 
mother,  the  girl  had  been  trying  to  make  up  her  mind 
to  call  on  her  new-found  relative.  But  why  ?  -r- 
someone  will  ask.  Why?  Well,  deep  down  in  Cor 
rie's  mind  was  a  thought  that  she  might  throw  her 
self  on  her  aunt's  mercy,  and  beg  for  shelter  under 
a  roof,  which,  after  all  is  said,  was,  at  the  least,  re 
spectable.  There,  in  time,  perhaps,  she  might  hope 

to But  no  matter  now  what  Corrie  hoped ;  it 

will  be  enough  to  say  that  the  hope,  shadowy  as  it 
was,  and  guileless  in  its  innocence,  had  something  to 
do  with  the  warm-hearted,  impulsive  boy,  who  was 
already  willing  to  chance  his  future  for  the  sake  of 
her  and  for  her  own  sake.  So  armed  by  her  decision, 
Corrie  plunged  down  into  Tenth  Street,  and  almost 
instantly  looked  around  her  with  astonishment. 

For  somehow  the  detached  thoroughfare  appealed, 
in  her  familiar  study  of  streets  and  the  houses 
therein,  as  a  by-way  she  had  known.  Had  she  ever 

389 


CORRIE  WHO? 

traveled  it  before  in  her  quest  of  the  house  with  the 
white  pillars,  the  green  blinds,  and  the  fan  light  over 
the  door?  She  thought  not,  after  a  moment's  re 
flection.  No,  in  her  other  visits  to  the  quarter,  she 
had  passed  by  along  Greenwich  Avenue  to  the  streets 
beyond.  But  house  by  house,  as  she  looked  up  into 
the  doorways  for  the  number  of  Miss  Tollabee's 
home,  the  thoroughfare  grew  more  and  more  vaguely 
familiar,  as  if  it  answered  in  its  details  to  some 
graphic  visual  image  indelibly  photographed  in  mind, 
perhaps  as  the  background  to  some  unusual  event. 
There  before  her  now,  was  a  square,  plain-faced  dom 
icile  of  brick,  its  door  graced  by  a  large  and  shining 
knocker;  and  in  front  of  it  was  a  little  garden  no 
larger  than  a  tea  tray,  blooming  raggedly  with  a  few 
old-fashioned  flowers  that  so  far,  had  escaped  the 
forays  of  the  neighborhood's  urchin  freebooters. 

Now  where?  —  where? 

Then  again,  like  a  blaze  of  light,  remembrance 
flashed  through  her  mind,  and  she  knew !  Yes ! 
she  'd  seen  the  house  before !  That  day  Miss  Maria 
had  brought  her  away  from  Mrs.  Pinchin's  to  play 
with  a  crippled  child!  Corrie  knew  now,  indeed! 
This  was  the  house,  and  that  child  must  have  been 
the  Tollabee  child.  But  why  had  Miss  Maria  brought 
her  here?  And  what  had  Miss  Maria  to  do  with  it? 
Corrie  looked  up  sharply  at  the  silent  windows ;  they 
were  closed  and  their  shades  were  tightly  drawn  — 
all  but  the  window  of  that  one  room  where  the 
stricken  child  had  sat,  —  drooling,  blind-eyed  in  its 
vacuity  of  mind.  That  window  was  now  raised  a  nar- 

390 


THE  STOLEN  PAPERS 

row  six  inches  or  so,  and  its  lowered  curtain  flapped 
slowly  back  and  forth.  "  Oh,"  said  Corrie,  des 
perately  ;  "  I  think  I  'm  going  out  of  my  head." 

Marching  straight  up  the  steps  to  the  door,  she 
laid  hold  of  the  bell  hanger  and  rang. 

In  the  house's  quiet  depths  footfalls  sounded,  a 
heavy  tread  that  marked  time  to  a  thump,  thwmp, 
thump,  as  if  someone  knocked  in  answer  to  the  peal 
of  the  bell.  The  noise  kept  on,  growing  more  dis 
tinct,  and  then  she  heard  other  footfalls  moving 
briskly  on  the  basement  stairs;  they  paused  and  it 
seemed  to  Corrie  that  she  heard  a  voice  mumble  out 
an  order  to  the  approaching  servant.  Afterwards 
a  door  closed  in  the  nearby  passage;  the  knob  rat 
tled,  as  a  hand  sprang  the  catch,  and  Corrie  drew  in 
her  breath. 

"  If  you  please,"  she  said  nervously,  "  I  would 
like  to  see  Miss  Margaret  Tollabee." 

It  was  a  servant  that  opened.  She  looked  uncer 
tainly  at  the  visitor,  and  when  she  answered,  it  was 
in  that  hushed  voice  which  servants  affect  when  there 
is  grave  illness  or  a  death  in  the  house. 

"  She  's  not  here,  ma'am,"  said  the  maid,  speaking 
from  behind  the  half-opened  door,  and  still  clinging 
to  the  knob. 

"  Not  in?     When  will  Miss  Tollabee  be  at  home?  " 

Without  answering,  the  servant  drew  in  her  head, 
and  conversed  in  even  more  lowered  tones,  apparently 
with  someone  standing  behind  her. 

"  Just  a  moment,  ma'am,"  said  the  servant ;  and 
with  no  further  apology  or  explanation,  calmly  closed 

391 


CORRIE  WHO? 

the  door  in  Corrie's  face.  Then  through  the  glass 
dimly,  she  saw  a  form  flit  across  the  hall;  and  just 
as  she  had  made  up  her  mind  that  Miss  Margaret 
Tollabee  stood  inside  and  that  she  had  reasons  for 
not  wishing  to  meet  her  sister's  offspring,  the  door 
was  slowly  opened,  and  the  servant  appeared  again. 

"  Please  to  come  in,  ma'am,"  she  said,  and  made 
way  for  Corrie  to  pass. 

The  little  parlor  into  which  she  was  shown  by  the 
maid  was  dark,  uncommonly  dark.  In  the  further 
corner  near  the  window,  a  ray  of  light  streamed 
through  a  chink  between  the  drawn  shade  and  the 
woodwork;  and  though  this  small  illumination  failed 
to  light  up  more  than  a  square  yard  or  so  of  carpet, 
it  was  strong  enough  to  guide  her  to  a  chair.  Going 
straight  to  it,  Corrie  made  no  effort  to  pierce  the 
gloom  at  the  room's  further  end ;  and  dropping  into 
the  seat,  she  bent  her  head  in  thought.  For  now  that 
she  had  arrived,  what  was  she  to  say  to  her  aunt? 
Should  she  throw  herself  on  Miss  Tollabee's  mercy, 
saying  who  she  was  and  begging  her  protection,  or 
should  she  first  make  sure  of  her  aunt's  feelings 
toward  her?  After  all,  Miss  Tollabee  might  not 
feel  inclined  to  view  the  matter  charitably;  and 
furthermore,  there  was  no  direct  certainty  that  Mrs. 
Pinchin  was  really  the  missing  sister.  It  was  a  fact, 
of  course,  that  Corrie  was  sure  of  it,  yet  she  was 
still  clear-headed  enough  to  reason  that  Stanwood 
Geikie's  presence  at  Mrs.  Pinchin's  might  be  ac 
counted  for  in  other  ways  —  the  possibility  that 
Mrs.  Pinchin  was  only  another  of  his  dupes  —  an- 

392 


THE  STOLEN  PAPERS 

other  of  his  victims.  "  No,"  said  Corrie,  musing 
aloud,  "nothing  is  certain!"  and  just  then  came 
to  her  the  creeping  knowledge  she  was  not  alone  in 
that  room,  but  that  someone  sat  in  the  gloom, 
fixedly  staring  at  her. 

The  parlor  was  long  and  narrow,  its  further  end 
lost  in  darkness.  Down  the  middle  a  long  table 
stretched;  and  as  Corrie's  eyes  strained  through 
the  gloom,  she  saw  vaguely  at  the  table's  other  end, 
a  heavier  bulk  of  shadow,  immobile  and  large.  There 
her  straining  eyes  swam  with  the  effort;  she  looked 
again,  and  her  sight  arranged  to  the  room's  obscur 
ity,  gradually  separated  that  deeper  shape  of  dark 
ness  from  the  deep  shadows  at  the  background. 

Someone  was  standing  there,  a  hand  resting  on 
the  table's  edge,  and  across  the  sombrous  space  be 
tween,  a  ghostly  face  stared  fixedly  at  hers. 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Corrie;  "Miss  Tollabee!"  — 
and  then,  as  the  figure  lurched  forward :  "  Mrs. 
Pinchin! " 

For  it  was  she,  indeed.  With  a  hop,  a  skip,  and  a 
jump,  she  lumbered  across  the  room  and  gripped 
the  girl  by  the  wrist.  "  So  you  've  tracked  me  here 
at  last,  have  you?  "  she  hissed  beneath  her  breath. 
"  So  you  've  snooped,  and  followed,  and  spied  regard 
less,  here  to  this  house  of  death?  Girl!  "  she  rumbled 
with  a  kind  of  savage  exultance  of  her  fury ;  "  will 
nothing  ever  please  you?  Now,  what  in  God's  name 
is  it  you  want  to  know  ?  "  she  cried,  forgetting  all 
else  in  her  blazing  exasperation.  "  What  do  you 
wish  to  know  ?  " 


CORRIE  WHO? 

She  reached  out  her  hand  and  snatched  at  the 
shade,  flooding  the  room  with  light,  so  that  she  might 
peer  into  Corrie's  face.  "  What  else,  I  say  ?  — 
Come !  Out  with  it,  won't  you  ?  —  for  I  'd  like  to 
know  what  that  prying  old  woman  fool  of  a  man  has 
set  you  up  to  now!  You  know  who  I  mean?  Now, 
tell  me  what  it  is !  " 

Corrie  knew  well  enough  that  she  meant  Mr.  Big- 
gamore;  she  fastened  her  eyes  on  Mrs.  Pinchin's. 

"  I  wish  to  know  nothing  from  you,"  she  answered, 
making  no  effort  to  free  herself  from  Mrs.  Pinchin's 
grip.  "  It  was  enough  when  I  learned  you  were  my 
mother." 

"Hunh!"  Mrs.  Pinchin  expressed  no  surprise; 
her  grunt  was  halfway  between  a  sneer  and  a  snarl. 
"  Well,  is  n't  that  enough  to  satisfy  you  ?  Is  n't  that 
enough?  " 

Corrie  smiled  at  her  wanly.  "  Yes,  that 's  quite 
enough.  I  don't  care  to  learn  any  more." 

"  Then  what  did  you  come  here  for?  " 

Corrie  raised  her  eyes  to  the  face  pressed  close  to 
hers,  and  answered :  "  I  came  here  to  see  my  aunt, 
Margaret  Tollabee.  I  came  to  ask  her  to  help  me. 
I  know  she  's  wished  for  years,  Mrs.  Pinchin,  to  get 
her  sister  back  to  her;  and  until  I  found  you  here, 
I  didn't  think  you  had  heart  enough  to  answer  your 
sister's  prayer.  Mrs.  Pinchin,  I  came  to  ask  her 
whether  she  'd  take  me,  if  you  would  n't  go  back  to 
her.  I  wanted  her  to  give  me  a  decent  home.  And 
so  now  you  know,  Mrs.  Pinchin." 

On  Mrs.  Pinchin's  face  there  grew  a  look,  first  of 
394 


THE  STOLEN  PAPERS 

gaping  stupefaction ;  then,  as  the  girl  went  on,  of  a 
growing,  derisive,  unaccountable  jocundity,  hearty 
in  its  merry  and  amazed  contempt.  A  shout  of 
laughter,  —  that  was  as  suddenly  stilled,  however,  — 
burst  unexpectedly  from  her  lips;  and  she  rocked 
back  her  head,  and  gazed  at  Corrie  with  her  jaws 
working  frantically  together.  "  Oho !  "  tittered 
Mrs.  Pinchin,  in  a  thick,  throaty  giggle,  "  so  you 
wanted  her  to  take  care  of  you  ?  Ho !  ho !  —  and 
well,  miss !  "  she  cried,  suddenly  beginning  to  lick  her 
lips,  "  since  it 's  a  home  you  wish  —  oh,  I  think  I  '11 
die  of  it  —  well,  we  '11  go  right  to  our  home  on  the 
instant !  Come !  "  she  ordered,  and  there  all  her  im 
pious  laughter  fled  out,  and  left  her  face  screwed 
up  into  an  ugly  frown.  "  Come  along  now ! "  she 
said,  and  tightened  her  grip  on  Corrie's  wrist.  "  Ask 
her  for  a  home !  —  and  oh,  to  think  a  daughter  of 
mine  should  be  such  a  fool ! " 

"  Wait!  "  said  Corrie.  "  Before  we  go,  let  me  say 
this  to  you,  Mrs.  Pinchin."  She  looked  her  full  in 
the  eyes.  "  I  shall  not  ask  my  aunt  to  take  me, 
because  I  'm  afraid  now  you  may  be  with  her  too.  I 
shall  not  stay  with  you  anywhere,  Mrs.  Pinchin, 
and  now  I  shall  tell  you  why."  She  stooped,  drew  in 
her  breath,  and  then  said  it  between  her  teeth. 
"  Because  though  you  are  my  mother,  Mrs.  Pinchin, 
I  think  you  a  wicked  and  shameless  creature, — 
without  heart !  —  or  soul !  —  or  pity !  There,  that 's 
why,  Mrs.  Pinchin !  " 

"  Silence !  "  roared  Mrs.  Pinchin,  and  dragged  her 

through  the  doorway. 

395 


CORRIE  WHO? 

They  went  out  into  the  street,  Mrs.  Pinchin  still 
clinging  to  Corrie's  wrist.  "  You  need  not  hold  me, 
Mrs.  Pinchin,"  said  Corrie,  quietly ;  "  I  will  go  with 
you."  Her  captor  released  her  then,  and  went 
thumping  along  in  silence.  They  crossed  Greenwich 
Avenue,  rounded  the  edge  of  Jefferson  Market,  and 
there  Mrs.  Pinchin  set  her  course  for  Ninth  Street. 
Hobbling  over  the  crossing,  she  raised  her  stick,  and 
began  furiously  signaling  to  a  carriage  that  stood 
halfway  down  the  block.  Presently,  the  drowsy 
coachman  saw  the  figure  beckoning  so  at  the  street 
end,  and  picked  up  his  lines;  and  as  the  equipage 
drew  near,  Corrie  recognized  it  and  the  lame  and 
halt  roans  with  their  jingling  pole  chains. 

"  Home ! "  growled  Mrs.  Pinchin,  and  thrust  Cor 
rie  inside.  She  got  in  ponderously,  wheezing  and 
grunting,  and  slammed  the  door  behind  her.  Then, 
when  the  brougham  had  turned  into  Fifth  Avenue, 
Corrie  looked  up  from  her  hands  to  pore  a  moment 
on  the  scowling  profile,  dark  and  unlovely  with  its 
thick-lipped,  heavy-lidded  symbolism  of  greed  and 
self-indulgence.  "  Mrs.  Pinchin,"  she  said,  still 
quietly ;  "  Tell  me  —  are  you  really  —  really  — 
honestly  my  mother?  " 

"  Silence ! "  thundered  Mrs.  Pinchin  again,  anni 
hilating  her  with  a  glance. 

So  Corrie  went  home  again,  dragged  back  to  it, 
as  if  all  roads  led  to  but  that  one  terminal  of  life. 

The  clocks  and  chimes  and  whistles  were  just  voic 
ing  the  hour  of  noon,  when  Mrs.  Pinchin's  brougham 
passed  out  from  between  the  Park's  hedgerows  into 

396 


THE  STOLEN  PAPERS 

Central  Park  West,  and  turned  along  Seventy-fifth 
Street.  Home  again  —  and  what  a  home,  indeed ! 
Licking  her  lips  and  wheezing,  Mrs.  Pinchin  grasped 
her  cane,  and  edging  forward  in  her  seat,  she  had  the 
door  opened  before  the  brougham  had  come  to  the 
curb. 

"  Get  out !  "  she  growled  succinctly ;  and  Corrie 
having  gotten  out,  Mrs.  Pinchin  turned  to  the  coach 
man.  "  Wait  here.  I  'm  going  back ;  "  —  and  then 
to  Corrie ;  "  you  come  along  with  me."  Leaning  on 
her  stick  she  heaved  up  the  steps,  fished  in  her  reti 
cule  for  a  pass  key,  waved  Corrie  inside,  and  then 
following,  slammed  the  door  behind  her. 

"  Now,  my  girl,"  said  Mrs.  Pinchin,  darkly, 
"  we  '11  talk  it  all  over.  "  You  're  my  daughter  — 
yes !  And  you  know  who  your  father  is,  too  — 
humh !  Very  well  then !  And  so  now,"  she  observed, 
unlocking  the  door  of  her  private  room ;  "  mother 
and  daughter  '11  go  in  here,  for  a  while,  and  talk  all 
this  over  from  start  to  finish.  I  'm  going  to  tell  you 
all  about  it,  daughter !  "  she  cried  in  a  mocking  voice, 
brutal  in  her  slumbering  wrath,  "  because  I  want  to 
get  it  all  clear  in  your  head.  So  now  —  now " 

Mrs.  Pinchin  stopped,  drew  in  her  breath,  while 
her  jaw  slowly  fell.  She  stood  with  her  fingers  still 
on  the  knob,  the  door  opened,  and  her  eyes  riveted  on 
the  room  inside.  Then  her  tongue  spread  out,  thickly 
licking  her  upper  lip ;  there  was  a  momentary  spasm 
in  her  throat  that  passed,  leaving  her  jaws  grinding 
together  fiercely ;  and  Mrs.  Pinchin  hopped  forward 
and  raised  a  terrible  cry. 

397 


CORRIE  WHO? 

For  there  stood  Mrs.  Pinchin's  desk  with  its  lid 
pried  open  and  broken ;  and  there  was  her  safe  with 
its  door  swinging  wide;  papers  littered  the  floor  as 
if  a  Gargantuan  snow  flaw  had  burst  inside,  and 
scattered  the  flakes  broadcast;  and  over  all  this 
devastation,  a  fallen  inkwell,  tumbled  from  the  desk, 
had  splashed  a  torrent  of  black  which  had  been 
ground  in  deeper  amid  the  ruin  by  some  ruthless 
heel. 

Again  Mrs.  Pinchin's  voice  raised  itself,  echoing 
through  the  quiet  house.  She  flung  herself  on  her 
knees,  snatching  at  the  papers,  unmindful  of  the 
dripping  ink.  Her  hands,  in  a  moment,  were  black 
with  it;  she  paused  long  enough  in  her  furious 
search,  to  brush  back  her  veil,  and  a  wide  smear 
traced  itself  across  her  face,  bringing  out  in  ghastly 
contrast  the  pallor  of  her  skin.  "  Gone !  Gone!  — 
Lost !  —  Stolen!  "  She  raised  her  lamentation  al 
most  to  the  keyed-up  stridency  of  a  howl.  "  Stolen ! 
—  Gone !  —  Gone !  "  she  wailed,  sobbing  it  from  the 
depth  of  her  chest. 

"  Mrs.  Pinchin!  "  gasped  Corrie. 

Then  her  eyes  rolled  around  till  she  saw  the  girl 
at  the  door;  and  a  terrible  transformation  spread 
over  her  convulsed  and  twitching  features.  "  You !  " 
she  cried,  and  by  a  powerful  effort,  heaved  herself 
massively  to  her  feet.  "  You  —  you  've  got  them. 
Give  me  back  my  Tollabee  papers." 

With  a  quick  movement,  she  reached  out  a  claw 
and  dragged  Corrie  into  the  room.  Panting  now, 
hoisting  up  the  breath  from  her  lungs  with  an  effort, 

398 


THE  STOLEN  PAPERS 

Mrs.  Pinchin  slammed  the  door  shut,  and  with  a 
groping  hand  outstretched  to  support  her,  she 
planted  her  back  against  it. 

"  Give  them  up !  Give  them  up ! "  she  choked 
and  pointed  a  gnarled,  trembling  finger  at  the  girl. 
"  You  took  them  —  and  —  give  me  back  my  Tolla- 
bee  papers." 

Outside  in  the  hall,  there  was  a  scurry  of  feet; 
someone  drummed  frantically  on  the  panels;  an 
equally  frantic  voice  begged  Mrs.  Pinchin  to  open 
up;  and  to  add  to  the  uproar,  the  doorbell,  with  a 
shrill,  startling  insistency,  began  to  clatter  in  spurts. 

Corrie  clenched  both  hands  at  her  side,  and  bent 
a  frightened  look  at  the  swaying  woman. 

"  The  Tollabee  papers !  How  did  you  get  them, 
Mrs.  Pinchin  ?  "  she  cried. 

Mrs.  Pinchin  made  no  answer  to  the  question. 
"  My  papers  —  the  papers  you  took !  "  she  gasped, 
and  her  voice  whispered  it  from  far  away,  choking 
and  minute.  Into  Mrs.  Pinchin's  face  had  come  a 
brick-red  glow,  flinging  its  signals  widely.  "You 
can't  g-go  —  leave  the  room  —  t-till  I  —  I  —  my  pa 
pers."  One  hand  reached  up,  wandering  to  her 
throat.  "  Why,  I  —  I  —  I  feel  so " 

"  Mrs.  Pinchin !  Mrs.  Pinchin !  —  you  are  not  my 
mother!  You  have  not  told  me  the  truth.  Where 
did  you  get  the  Tollabee  papers?" 

Again  a  fierce  drumming  on  the  panels,  and  Miss 
Maria's  piercing  voice,  crying:  "  Let  me  in!  Judie 
—  Judie!  Let  me  in!" 

For  one  instant  Mrs.  Pinchin  stared  at  Corrie 
399 


CORRIE  WHO? 

blindly,   her   eyelids   fluttering.      "I  —  I  —  why,   I 

cannot  —  wmhl  —  what " 

Moaning  once,  Mrs.  Pinchin  swayed,  recovered 
herself,  and  then  with  a  groan,  pitched  forward  on 
her  face.  Her  promised  stroke  had  come. 


400 


CHAPTER  XX 

In  which  the  tide  turns  from  the  ebb  and  bears  back  Mrs. 
Pinchin  to  the  shores  of  Life.  —  The  watcher  by  the  bed 
side.  —  Why  Come  refused  to  see  her  lover.  —  Mrs. 
Pinchin  regains  consciousness.  —  Mrs.  Pinchin's  wink 
and  its  startling  effects.  —  Margaret  ToUabee  learns  tardily 
that  she  is,  after  all,  a  good  soul. 

T  TNQUESTIONABLY    a   fine   state   of   affairs! 

*-'  The  crash  of  that  massive  figure  tumbling  like 
an  ox  felled  in  the  shambles  was  echoed  instantly 
by  a  wilder  pounding  on  the  door.  "  Oh !  will  you 
let  me  in?  "  shrilled  Miss  Maria,  and  there  followed 
another  crash,  as  she  backed  off  and  threw  her  body 
against  the  panels.  "  Let  me  in !  Let  me  in !  " 

But  Mrs.  Pinchin  lay  outstretched,  her  disordered 
bulk  effectually  obstructing  the  way.  Her  breath 
came  slowly  and  noisily ;  her  head  had  turned  to  one 
side,  disclosing  her  gross  and  now  more  sensual  pro 
file,  repellent  in  the  suffused  empurplement  of  its 
skin,  and  her  hands,  loose  and  incapable,  upturned 
themselves  amid  the  ink-stained  litter  on  the  floor. 
Surely  enough,  the  stroke  had  come,  just  as  she  so 
frequently  had  promised  herself. 

Poor  Corrie !    As  the  heavy  figure  swayed  forward, 

staggering,  the  girl  had  put  out  a  hand  to  catch  Mrs. 

Pinchin    before   she   fell.      But   her   arm   owned   no 

strength  to  support  a  bulk  like  that;    she  had  been 

26  401 


CORRIE  WHO? 

thrust  backward  by  the  weight.  Recovering  herself, 
she  raised  her  voice  in  a  cry  of  alarm,  and  then  fell 
on  her  knees  beside  the  prostrate  woman. 

"  Let  me  in !  Let  me  in  !  "  babbled  Miss  Maria, 
struggling  to  force  the  door.  "  Owpen  it  oop !  Ow- 
pen  it  oop !  "  came  Maggie's  brogue,  added  to  the 
clamor ;  and  then  a  man's  voice  raised  itself.  "  Hi ! 
hi !  een  there !  —  you !  " 

The  girl  made  one  ineffectual  effort  to  drag  Mrs. 
Pinchin's  form  away.  Then  she  reached  over  and 
turned  the  key;  outside,  all  three  were  shoving 
against  the  panels,  and  the  door  slowly  moved  inward, 
pushing  the  inert  figure  on  before  it. 

Miss  Maria,  aroused  from  her  bed  by  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin's  shout,  had  sprung  down  the  stairs  without 
waiting  to  rearrange  her  attire.  A  flannel  dressing- 
gown  incompletely  hid  the  fact  that  she  wore  a  night 
dress  underneath,  and  her  hair,  done  up  into  a 
meager  braid,  stood  out  behind  her  as  stiff  as  a  sea 
man's  tarry  queue.  "  Judie!  "  she  cried,  as  her  eyes 
fell  on  the  stricken  figure.  "  Oh !  —  is  she  dead  ?  " 
gasped  Miss  Maria.  "  Oh,  Judie !  —  are  you  dead  ? 
—  Are  you?  —  Is  she?  —  Tell  me  she  isn't  dead!" 
she  wailed,  glancing  terrifiedly  at  Corrie. 

The  girl  had  taken  Mrs.  Pinchin's  head  in  her  lap. 
"  Go  get  a  doctor  —  someone !  Quick !  —  run  and 
get  a  doctor."  Maggie  stood  in  the  doorway,  her 
mouth  agape,  and  over  her  shoulder  peered  the 
startled  face  of  Signore  Alfuente.  He  had  come,  it 
appeared,  to  keep  his  engagement  with  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin,  arriving  at  the  crucial  moment  of  that  en- 

402 


MRS.  PINCHIN'S  WINK 

counter  in  the  private  room.  "  You  —  you,  Mr. 
Alfuente.  There  's  a  doctor  a  few  doors  down  the 
street.  Oh,  why  don't  you  go?  Maggie,  you  go!" 
she  cried,  as  the  musician  seemed  unable  to 
understand. 

Miss  Maria's  eyes  suddenly  had  grown  hard  and 
vixenish.  "  What  happened?  "  she  demanded,  and 
then  she  raised  an  accusing  finger.  "  You  did  this. 
You  're  to  blame !  You  've  killed  my  poor  sister  — 
it  was  you!  Oh,  Judie  —  and  I  thought  you  were 
coming  back  to  me !  "  wailed  Miss  Maria,  and  fell  to 
beating  her  hands  against  her  sides. 

Both  Maggie  and  the  Signore  had  departed,  the 
musician  comprehending  at  last  what  was  required 
of  him.  Miss  Maria,  clasping  her  hands  on  her 
breast,  kneeled  down  beside  Mrs.  Pinchin.  "  Oh, 
Judie !  —  and  I  thought  you  'd  go  home  with  me 
again,  and  now  —  Oh,  she  's  dead  —  dead !  "  sobbed 
Miss  Maria,  rocking  to  and  fro. 

"  She  's  not  dead,"  said  Corrie,  struggling  to  keep 
her  wits;  "you  can  hear  her  breathe.  There!  I 
think  she  's  coming  to.  Don't  you  see  her  eyes?  " 

Miss  Maria  shoved  Corrie  away.  She  took  Mrs. 
Pinchin's  vast  figure  in  her  arms,  and  rocked  her 
like  a  child.  "  Get  away  —  get  away  from  here,  you 
wicked,  wicked  girl!  "  she  cried  at  Corrie.  "  You  've 
never  made  anything  but  trouble  since  you  were  born. 
Now  you've  killed  her!  Get  away!  — oh,  Judie! 
Judie!  Judie!" 

They  fetched  a  doctor  from  somewhere,  a  young 
man  who  came  hurrying  with  his  black  leather  pill 

403 


CORRIE  WHO? 

bag,  and  another  case  of  instruments.  Maggie  had 
found  him,  and  from  Maggie's  hysteria,  the  young 
practitioner  had  n't  been  able  to  decide  whether  Mrs. 
Pinchin  had  fallen  in  a  fit,  or  down  an  airshaft. 
But  at  a  first  glance  he  knew.  "  First  or  second 
stroke? "  he  asked  briskly,  going  to  work  at 
once.  "  Second,  I  should  say.  Now  calm  yourself, 
madam ;  "  this  to  Miss  Maria  who  had  begun  again 
to  rock  to  and  fro.  "  Second?  —  ah,  yes ;  I  thought 
so!  Hmph!  Quite  lame  before,  as  I  remember." 

A  moment  later  came  a  second  physician,  Mr.  Al- 
fuente  trotting  at  his  heels.  "  Morning,  Bronson." 

"  Findlay.     Patient  of  yours  ?  " 

The  second  comer  shook  his  head.    "  Pretty  bad?  " 

"  Can't  say  yet.  You  'd  better  give  me  a  hand 
here." 

Together  they  got  Mrs.  Pinchin  up  the  stairs,  and 
laid  her  on  the  massive  four-poster  in  her  room. 
Miss  Maria  went  with  them,  and  Corrie,  too.  But 
at  the  door  of  Mrs.  Pinchin's  room,  the  dowdy, 
stoop-shouldered,  weeping  pitiable  figure  turned  and 
barred  the  way.  "  You  shall  not  come  in  here !  "  she 
said,  drawing  up  her  figure  to  its  full  height.  "  Go !  " 
she  said,  and  in  her  thin,  uncomely  face  there  shone, 
for  the  moment,  a  dignity  of  force  and  grandeur  that 
transfigured  Miss  Maria  almost  to  the  point  of  no 
bility.  "  Go ! "  she  repeated ;  "  I  shall  care  for  my 
sister  alone,"  she  said,  and  closed  the  door  in  Corrie's 
face. 

Mr.  Alfuente,  after  the  first  momentary  shock  of 
dismay,  had  agreeably  recovered  himself;  and  now, 

404 


MRS.  PINCHIN'S  WINK 

so  far  from  the  thought  of  taking  his  departure, 
the  gentleman  stood  in  the  drawing-room  below, 
idly  twirling  his  far-famed  moustaches.  Hearing 
Corrie's  footfalls  on  the  stair,  he  recovered  himself 
even  more  completely,  and  with  a  flashing  gleam  of 
teeth  and  an  even  more  alluring  smile  in  his  velvety 
eyes,  threw  himself  into  an  attitude  to  await  the 
young  woman's  coming. 

Now,  shall  it  be  said  that  the  foreign  gentleman's 
chivalry  and  respect  for  women  was  of  the  same  high 
order  as  that  for  which  all  the  Continental  males  — 
and  especially  those  of  Latin  origin  —  are  so  justly 
and  unquestionably  renowned?  Yes  —  let  us  say  so, 
indeed;  for  the  musician  was  no  exception  to  the 
rule.  Corrie  was  only  a  paid  dependent,  so  in  order 
with  the  privileges  of  that  historically  perfect  chiv 
alry  of  his  European  kind,  Corrie  was  to  him  fair 
prey  for  his  blandishments.  Kicking  his  foot  behind 
him,  smiling,  twirling  his  moustache,  and  widening 
his  greasy  eyes,  Mr.  Alfuente  advanced,  determined 
to  make  good  use  of  his  tete  a  tete  with  his  charming 
and  unsuspecting  inamorata. 

"  Oh ! "  exclaimed  Corrie,  and  tried  to  retreat. 

"  Ah!  You  will  not  go  till  I  hear?  Your  good 
lady,  is  she  very  ill?"  said  the  Signore,  only  the 
will  became  veal  in  his  insinuating  appeal,  while  the 
HI  squirmed  out  of  his  speech  as  an  eel.  "  I  stay  with 
you  here,  prahapps,  to  hear  the  good  rapport." 

Corrie  said  she  could  tell  him  nothing  yet;  if  he 
cared  to  learn  he  must  come  again,  later.  Immedi 
ately  another  flashing  smile.  The  Signore,  indeed, 

405 


CORRIE  WHO? 

would  come  again,  and  he  would  expect  to  see  the  fair 
young  lady  with  the  adorable  eyes.  Prahapps,  when 
he  ratturned,  she  again  would  see  heem,  and  after 
wards  even  go  for  what-d'  you-cal-heem  —  ah !  si!  — 
a  little  stroll  in  the  air. 

It  is  questionable  whether  ever  before  in  his  career 
of  European  chivalry,  the  Signore  received  so  im 
mediate  a  return  for  his  gallantry. 

For  after  one  look  at  him  to  make  doubly  sure  of 
what  he  meant,  Corrie  turned  on  her  heel,  and  with 
no  change  of  expression  in  her  face,  departed,  leav 
ing  the  astonished  musician  to  gape  after  her  in  dis 
may.  Exit  Signore  Alfuente,  thou  of  the  mussed 
linen  and  velvet  eyes.  Buon1  giorn\  addio!  ta-ta, 
Signore;  for  these  pages  shall  see  you  no  more. 

Throughout  the  day,  Mrs.  Pinchin  lay  in  her  huge 
four-poster  breathing  stertorously,  her  face  upturned 
to  the  ceiling.  It  was  a  large  face,  and  one  cast  in  a 
certain  nobility  of  bigness  that  became  almost  Jo 
vian  in  the  moments  of  her  wrath.  But  fate  now  had 
played  queer  tricks  with  Mrs.  Pinchin's  visage,  sport 
ing  with  it  in  unkindly  ways;  for  one  side  of  her 
mouth,  whose  nerve  cells  had  been  withered  in  the 
shock,  was  stitched  up  by  a  muscular  contraction 
into  the  aspect  of  a  tipsy  leer.  So  hour  after  hour 
she  lay  there,  impressively  big  even  in  the  humility 
of  her  downfall ;  and  hour  after  hour,  with  that  same 
crapulous  jocundity,  her  wrecked  features  simpered 
at  the  walls. 

Beside  her  sat  Miss  Maria,  waiting.  Silenced  as 
never  before,  the  weak  and  pitiable  shadow  watched 

406 


MRS.  PINCHIN'S  WItfK 

there,  faithful  as  a  dog  beside  its  master's  bier.  Her 
face  was  screwed  now  into  a  point  of  quiet  attention ; 
she  had  fixed  her  eyes  on  Mrs.  Pinchin's  face,  and, 
as  hour  after  hour,  the  noisy  breathing  wheezed 
away  in  the  quiet,  her  vigil  never  lapsed.  Somewhere 
within  call,  the  young  doctor  waited;  and  another 
had  been  summoned,  an  eminent  specialist  who  was 
to  come  presently  and  read  the  verdict  —  either  a 
reprieve,  or  to  hand  Mrs.  Pinchin  the  death  warrant. 
There  was  the  nurse,  too  —  a  young  girl  in  cap  and 
apron,  wearing  a  cool,  blue-striped,  muslin  gown  that 
rustled  quietly.  For  Mrs.  Pinchin,  even  on  the  brink 
where  all  things  end,  must  have  all  that  life  offered 
to  the  last. 

Which  way  now?  Shall  we  say  that  night  came, 
and  that  in  the  night,  Mrs.  Pinchin's  soul  went 
screaming  on  its  way  aloft  to  that  great  Court 
of  courts  where  the  Judge  of  judges  sits  Him  at 
the  bar?  Or  shall  we  stick  to  the  literal  facts? 
Come! 

No,  Mrs.  Pinchin  did  not  die.  The  hours  dragged 
on  into  the  dark,  and  when  the  city  lights  came 
gleaming  through  the  dusk,  winking  like  Heaven's 
host  of  eyes  above,  her  hand  moved,  scratching  the 
coverlid,  as  if  it  beckoned  life  back  again  to  the 
wrecked  frame  that  so  long  had  cherished  and  in 
dulged  it.  Night  —  and  the  creeping  tide  that  waits 
to  bear  onward  the  multitude  that  lie  waiting  for  the 
journey.  But  the  night-tide  came,  and  Mrs  Pin- 
chin  roused  herself,  valiant  and  not  yet  lost;  and 
when  the  night-tide  came  and  passed,  there  she  lay, 

407 


CORRIE  WHO? 

that  wraithless  effigy  of  a  grin  still  stitched  on  her 
face,  but  knowing  she  had  dragged  back  to  the 
shattered  cell  both  precious  life  and  reason.  No, 
indeed;  Mrs.  Pinchin  did  not  die. 

"  Judie !  —  Judie !  "  whispered  the  gray  watcher 
at  the  bedside. 

Mrs.  Pinchin  heard  her  call,  and  acknowledged  it 
with  one  fluttering  eyelid  that  winked  tipsily  in  fel 
lowship  with  her  fixed  and  tipsy  leer. 

During  these  fated  hours,  Corrie  had  become  a 
negligible  quantity  in  Mrs.  Pinchin's  house.  Hour 
after  hour,  she  too,  sat  waiting,  alone  and  deeply 
thoughtful,  pondering  in  a  corner  of  the  drawing- 
room.  For  what  if  Mrs.  Pinchin  died?  At  every 
shuffle  of  feet  along  the  floor  above,  her  heart  leaped, 
hearing  in  every  sound  the  coming  tidings  of  the 
end.  Day  went  by,  and  came  nightfall;  still  she 
sat  there.  When  the  servants  offered  food,  she  shook 
her  head,  and  so  the  hours  passed.  The  chime  in  the 
hall  outside  boomed  unheeded  —  ten  !  —  eleven !  — 
twelve !  —  midnight !  and  Corrie  still  sat  there. 

"  You  are  going  to  bed  soon  ?  "  inquired  the  young 
doctor,  with  an  interest  and  sympathy  that  even  the 
cloak  of  his  grave  manner  could  not  hide.  "  You  can 
do  nothing  by  sitting  up." 

"  I  suppose  not,"  answered  Corrie,  weakly.  "  Will 
she  recover?  " 

He  answered  that  it  was  too  soon  to  say.  "  But  I 
think  so,"  he  added,  with  unprofessional  candor,  or, 
rather,  pity.  "  Mrs.  Pinchin  is  a  relative,  is  n't 
she?  "  he  inquired. 

408 


MRS.  PINCHIN'S  WINK 

"  She  is  ray  mother,"  answered  Corrie,  and  whis 
pered  to  herself  the  question,  "  Is  she?" 

The  young  physician  repressed  a  start  of  aston 
ishment.  "  I  did  n't  —  Ah,  yes ;  I  see."  But  it  was 
extremely  improbable  that  he  did  see;  for  to  him 
and  to  the  remainder  of  the  neighborhood,  it  was  in 
deed  news  to  learn  that  Mrs.  Pinchin's  dame  de  com- 
pagnie  was  her  offspring.  A  little  disconcerted,  he 
sought  to  change  the  conversation. 

"  Your  mother,  Miss  Pinchin  "  —  oh,  good  Hea 
vens  !  thought  Corrie  — "  your  mother  must  have 
experienced  some  grave  mental  shock?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Corrie,  dully ;  "  a  bundle  of 
valuable  papers  was  stolen  from  her.  She  had  just 
found  it  out." 

"  Indeed !  —  and  the  police  have  not  been  here 
yet  ?  "  Astonishment  again  peeped  out  from  under 
his  usual  air  of  gravity.  Corrie  began  twisting  her 
fingers  together  in  her  lap. 

"  No,  the  police  have  not  been  notified.  It  was 
not  the  kind  of  robbery  that  would  interest  them. 
We  know,  too,  who  did  it." 

In  downright  amazement  now  he  gaped  at  her,  dig 
nity  no  longer  able  to  struggle  with  his  amazement. 
Then,  for  the  first  time,  Corrie  realized  into  what 
degree  of  frankness  her  indifference  had  led  her,  and 
she,  too,  became  a  little  disconcerted.  "I  think, 
if  you  '11  excuse  me,  I  will  go  now.  You  say  she  has 
recovered  consciousness?  " 

Yes;  though  the  motor  nerves  of  one  side  of 
her  form  had  been  damaged ;  but  how  extensive  the 

409 


CORRIE  WHO? 

paralysis  would  be,  and  to  what  degree  it  would 
leave  her  a  cripple,  only  time  could  tell.  "  How  long 
ago,  exactly,  may  I  ask?  "  he  inquired,  "  was  the 
other  stroke  —  the  one  that  left  her  lame  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  Corrie,  and  when  a 
few  minutes  later  the  young  doctor  went  down  the 
steps,  he  turned  and  looked  up  at  Mrs.  Pinchin's. 
"  Well,  I  'm  blowed ! "  he  muttered  to  himself,  suc 
cinctly,  if  not  elegantly. 

There  was,  of  course,  no  question  who  had  robbed 
Mrs.  Pinchin,  and  had,  at  the  same  time,  so  brought 
about  her  downfall.  If  there  were  any  doubts  in  the 
matter,  it  required  only  a  little  reflection  to  identify 
the  thief.  The  one  incident  of  that  first  morning 
was  enough  —  the  moment  when  Corrie  hidden  be 
hind  the  clock  had  watched  the  singular  Mr.  Stan- 
ton  at  work  on  the  lock  of  Mrs.  Pinchin's  private 
room.  Furthermore,  when  Uncle  Stanwood  had  dis 
covered  Corrie  watching  him,  he  had  not  been  able, 
even  with  all  his  usual  coolness,  to  screw  his  face 
into  an  expression  that  would  argue  pleasure  at 
being  discovered  in  his  investigation  of  locked  doors 
and  keyholes.  Corrie  had  noted  his  guilt,  and  while 
she  knew  nothing  of  the  wax  that  Mrs.  Pinchin 
had  subsequently  found  in  the  lock,  and  which  Mr. 
Stanton-Stanwood  Geikie  had  doubtless  used  to  re 
cord  an  impression  of  what  the  said  keyhole  looked 
like,  she  was  still  certain  that  no  one  else  could  be 
the  guilty  person. 

But  what  was  Uncle  Stanwood's  interest  in  the 
papers?  Were  they  really  documents  affecting  the 

410 


MRS.  PINCHIN'S  WINK 

Tollabees?  For  if  one  considered  Miss  Margaret 
Tollabee's  statement  that  the  Tollabee  fortune  was 
gone,  no  papers  relating  to  the  estate  could  be  of 
much  value  now.  And  certainly,  Uncle  Stanwood  was 
not  one  to  perpetrate  a  theft,  unless  it  were  of  some 
value  to  him  ?  But  what  were  the  papers  ?  —  what  ? — 
what? 

She  remembered  then  the  papers  of  which  Mr. 
Biggamore  had  spoken  —  the  ones  that  if  once 
found  would  clear  the  memory  of  Philip  Geikie's  dead 
father.  Were  they  the  ones  ?  —  or 

Said  Corrie  as  she  got  into  bed  in  the  dark: 

"  I  think  my  head  is  going  to  split.  Oh,  why  did 
I  turn  Phil  away  from  the  door,  to-day?  " 

Turn  Phil  away  from  the  door?  Oh,  yes!  Mag 
gie  had  taken  the  message,  —  not  once,  but  twice. 

"Sure,  an'  ain't  I  a-tellin'  ye  again?  'Twill  be 
more  to  the  likes  av  a  funeral  we  're  havin'  than  them 
parties  av  a  Sunday  evening,  I  dunno.  An'  she  says 
she  '11  be  writing  ye  all  about  it." 

So  Phil  had  gone  away,  perplexed  and  down 
hearted,  and  after  wiping  out  her  eyes  with  cold 
water,  Corrie  had  returned  to  the  drawing-room  cor 
ner.  For "  Oh !  oh !  "  Corrie  wept  to  herself,  "  if 

I  see  him  again  I  '11  give  in.  He  '11  make  me,  and  I 
won't  —  won't  —  won't !  I'm  not  going  to  ruin 
his  life  —  I  can't !  I  won't !  Oh !  " 

But  now?—  "And  now  I've  got  to  send  for 
him ! "  cried  Corrie,  as  she  buried  her  face  in  the 
pillows.  "  I  won't!  "  she  snapped,  and  sat  bolt  up 
right  staring  through  the  dark.  "If  I  see  him,  I 

411 


CORRIE  WHO? 

know  what  will  happen  —  and  I  won't !  won't ! 
won't ! " 

Chin  in  hand,  she  leaned  forward  to  stare  through 
the  dark. 

"  Know  what  I  '11  do?  "  said  Corrie  to  herself,  and 
clenched  her  teeth.  "  I  '11  send  for  Mr.  Biggamore. 
That 's  what  I  '11  do,"  said  Corrie,  as  if  she  fully 
meant  the  threat.  "  That 's  what  I  '11  do !  " 

Then  she  buried  her  head  in  the  pillows  again. 
"  My  heart  can  just  break,  if  it  wants  to,"  she  mut 
tered  ;  and  outside,  in  the  city,  the  clocks  boomed  the 
hour  of  one. 

Downstairs  in  the  darkened  sick  room,  the  gray 
shadow  still  watched,  waiting  there  beside  the  huge 
form  stretched  in  the  huge  four-poster.  A  finger 
scratched  upon  the  counterpane. 

"Yes,  Judie." 

There  was  in  the  gray  watcher's  solicitude  as  she 
leaned  over  the  bed  something  of  a  mother's  caress 
ing  love  as  she  beads  above  the  cradle  of  her  first 
born. 

"What  is  it,  Judie,  dear?" 

One  side  of  the  large  mask  grinning  up  from 
among  the  pillows  twitched  with  an  effort,  and  a  dis 
jointed  mumble  came  thickly  from  the  crippled  lips. 

"  Mar-r-rr-ret  Toll-1 — 11-1  —  yur-rr-r  —  good 
soul." 

In  the  dark  the  waterworks  started  again,  spout 
ing  quietly  and  unseen.  In  the  dark,  also,  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin's  face  went  on  staring  at  the  ceiling,  her  mouth 

412 


MRS.  PINCHIN'S  WINK 

wried  into  the  semblance  of  a  tipsy  leer.  So  passed 
the  night  away,  and  then  came  dawn.  Mrs.  Pinchin 
lived ;  but  just  the  same,  as  if  she  did  or  did  n't,  New 
York  awoke,  and  in  West  Seventy-fifth  Street,  the 
first  housemaids  began  scrubbing  off  the  stoops. 


413 


CHAPTER  XXI 

Disclosing  one  way  in  which  irrepressible  Nature  plays  its 
little  jokes.  —  Mrs.  Pinchin's  plight.  —  The  scene  in  the 
sick  room.  —  The  thief  revealed.  —  Mrs.  Pinchin  trifles 
with  the  death-dealing  thunderbolts.  —  Miss  Maria's  plea 
for  a  confession.  —  Mrs.  Pinchin  acknowledges  her  wrong. 
—  Showing  the  curious  informality  of  a  woman  who  strove 
to  preserve  a  good  name.  —  Mr.  Stanton  proposes  but 
Corrie  disposes.  —  Corrie  Who  ?  again.  —  Miss  Maria 
determines  to  tell.  —  Mr.  Biggamore  summoned. 

AND  so  nature  plays  her  little  jokes    when  the 
time  comes  to  pay  up. 

No  —  as  it  has  been  said  —  Mrs.  Pinchin  did  not 
die.  Mrs.  Pinchin  lived,  and  would  continue  to  live, 
though  life  would  become  for  her  no  such  merry  ex 
istence  as  her  past  had  been.  For  now,  in  reparation 
of  those  years  of  slothful  and  self-indulgent  cosset 
ing,  Mrs.  Pinchin,  if  she  cared  to  remain  on  earth 
instead  of  under  it,  must  adapt  herself  to  a  course 
so  virtuous  that  it  would  not  admit  even  of  cakes  and 
ale.  Frankly,  no  more  gorging,  nibbling,  sipping. 
No  more  showing  off  of  fine  gowns,  fine  jewels  and 
the  like.  No  more  parties.  No  more  social  plunges ; 
none  of  those  big  and  little  things  she  loved  so 
much.  No  more  of  anything,  in  fact,  but  a  quiet, 
abstemious,  and,  to  her,  utterly  obdurate  existence 
hardly  worth  the  trouble  of  continuing.  Kind  of  a 

414 


MISS  MARIA  DETERMINES 

grisly  joke,  wasn't  it,  that  Nature  played  on  Mrs. 
Pinchin  ? 

Corrie  did  not  send  for  Mr.  Biggamore  —  at 
least,  not  yet.  That  morning  Phil  arrived  at  Mrs. 
Pinchin's  door,  and  again  was  turned  away.  Later 
came  an  appealing  note,  which  in  turn  went  un 
answered.  Presently,  the  telephone  jingled  fran 
tically,  but  with  no  better  luck. 

"  If  I  see  him,  he  '11  make  me.  If  I  write  to  him, 
I  '11  have  to.  If  I  telephone  him,  it  will  be  worse,  be 
cause  I  never  could  talk  over  a  telephone  anyway, 
and  know  what  I  was  saying."  Corrie  wept  timidly 
and  then  dried  her  eyes.  "  But  I  won't  be  able  to 
hold  out  much  longer,"  said  Corrie,  "  if  he  keeps  on 
ringing  the  doorbell." 

In  which  way,  three  days  passed  by  under  Mrs. 
Pinchin's  roof. 

During  these  days  Corrie  saw  nothing  of  Miss 
Maria,  though  of  what  went  on  in  the  sick  room,  she 
was,  hour  by  hour,  informed.  Mrs.  Pinchin  had  so 
far  recovered  herself  as  to  be  able  to  speak;  there 
were  even  indications  she  would  regain  the  use  of  her 
arm.  Presently  it  was  thought  Mrs.  Pinchin  might 
be  able  to  walk  again,  though  with  a  still  more  ag 
gravated  limp.  Corrie  listened  intently,  receiving 
these  bulletins  with  an  impassive  calm  that  again  af 
fected  the  young  doctor  curiously.  But  though  Cor 
rie  was  aware  of  his  growing  wonderment,  she  was 
too  honest  to  pretend  affection  for  the  stricken 
woman,  even  though  Mrs.  Pinchin  were  her  mother. 
And  is  she?  —  thought  Corrie  miserably. 

415 


CORRIE  WHO? 

But  deep  down  in  the  girl's  heart  there  grew  a 
new  and  solemn  feeling  for  that  grim  recusant,  who, 
•though  battled  off  her  feet,  still  fought  from  the 
ground  with  no  cry  for  quarter.  It  was  a  feeling 
of  pity,  and  mixed  with  it,  a  recurring  respect. 

On  the  morning  of  the  third  day,  and  just  after 
the  doctor  had  gone,  Miss  Maria  emerged  from  her 
vigil  by  the  bedside.  She  came  down  the  stairs,  her 
list  slippers  making  no  sound  on  the  treads,  and  glid 
ing  into  the  drawing-room,  silently  crooked  a  finger 
at  the  girl. 

Corrie  recognized  the  signal;  it  was  an  expected 
summons,  though  she  had  not  looked  for  it  so  soon. 
Days  before,  she  had  told  Mrs.  Pinchin  that  even 
to  the  hour  of  her  dying,  she  would  await  the  ex 
planation;  and  while  this  was  not  to  be  a  death-bed 
confessional,  Corrie,  none  the  less,  knew  the  moment 
to  be  portentous.  So  at  the  heels  of  her  silent  guide, 
she  climbed  the  stairs,  her  mind  in  a  tumult. 

The  young  nurse  was  coming  out  of  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin's  room,  the  day's  chart  in  her  hand.  "  Be  very 
quiet  with  her,  won't  you,  Miss  Pinchin  ? "  she 
warned ;  "  and  don't  stay  too  long."  Then  she 
smiled  kindly ;  this  was  the  stricken  woman's  daugh 
ter,  and  naturally  she  must  see  her. 

"  I  promise,"  said  Corrie,  quietly ;  and  Miss 
Maria  opened  the  door. 

But  whether  the  young  nurse  would  have  been  so 
placid  about  it,  had  she  known ;  or  whether  the 
young  doctor  would  have  permitted  it,  had  they 
asked  him,  are  two  questions  that  are,  perhaps,  best 

416 


MISS  MARIA  DETERMINES 

answered  by  themselves.  There  on  the  pillows  lay 
the  heavy-tortured  face,  staring  up  at  the  ceiling 
with  that  same  mirthless  effigy  of  a  grin,  and  there 
was  the  one  opened  eye  that  leered  at  Corrie  with 
the  semblance  of  a  wink. 

Her  lips  moved  and  she  spoke.  These  pages  shall 
make  no  effort  to  mimic  faithfully,  nor  to  simulate 
in  any  way,  the  thick-tongued  effort  of  her  speech; 
for  it  was  as  painful  in  its  way,  and  as  sorry  as  the 
maimed  lips  that  uttered  it.  Mrs.  Pinchin  spoke,  and 
that  is  quite  enough.  She  turned  her  head,  coiled 
with  its  coarse  and  dark  ropey  braids,  and  mutely 
signaled  the  girl  to  bend  closer.  On  the  four-poster's 
other  side  was  Miss  Maria,  waiting  and  still 
watching. 

"  Girl,  was  it  you  that  broke  into  my  room  below?  " 

Corrie  started  in  astonishment;  this  was  hardly 
what  she  had  expected.  "  No,  Mrs.  Pinchin,"  she 
answered,  and  in  the  heat  of  the  moment,  it  was  on 
the  tip  of  her  tongue  to  say  she  might  be  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin's  daughter,  but  still  she  was  not  a  thief.  "  No," 
said  Corrie ;  "  I  did  n't.  Need  I  tell  you  that?  " 

"  There !  "  exclaimed  Miss  Maria,  as  if  empha 
sizing  7  told  you  so. 

"You  haven't  been  in  there?  And  you  haven't 
seen  the  papers?  And  you  don't  know  who  took 
them?  "  Mrs.  Pinchin  mumbled  the  three  questions, 
and  closed  her  one  able  eye,  breathing  softly  while 
she  waited. 

"  I  have  n't  seen  them,"  answered  Corrie,  quietly ; 
"  but  I  think  I  know  who  took  them." 
27  417 


CORRIE  WHO? 

A  long  pause;  Mrs.  Pinchin's  breast  heaved  with 
a  deep  inspiration.  "  Who  ?  "  she  queried,  and  the 
one  word  was  breathed  forth  like  a  choking  sigh. 

"  Stanwood  Geikie  —  Mr.  Stanton." 

"  Oh!  "  cried  Miss  Maria,  unprepared  to  hear  his 
name,  the  cry  wrung  out  of  her  willy  nilly.  She  half 
arose  from  her  chair. 

They  had  warned  Mrs.  Pinchin  already  that  any 
stress  of  excitement  would  be  fatal.  But  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin  lay  here  now,  trifling  with  the  thunderbolts. 
Grim  Mrs.  Pinchin  —  able  and  courageous !  Te  mor- 
ibundi  salutamus! 

"  Oh !  "  gasped  Miss  Maria. 

A  gnarled  finger  scratched  irritably  on  the  cover 
lid.  Miss  Maria  sat  down. 

"  Who  ?  "  inquired  Mrs.  Pinchin,  after  a  pause. 

Corrie  repeated  the  name;  it  seemed  convincing 
enough;  and  Mrs.  Pinchin  again  breathed  deeply. 
"  Humh-h !  "  she  grunted. 

"  Judie  —  is  n't  that  enough?  You  know  they 
told  you  you  must  be  very  quiet.  I  would  n't " 

Again  the  thick  finger  scratched  irritably  on  the 
counterpane.  Mrs.  Pinchin  was  reserving  both  her 
breath  and  herself  for  a  further  effort. 

"  He  has  n't  shown  you  what  he  stole?  You  don't 
know  anything  about  it.?  "  she  still  persisted. 

Corrie  breathed  a  little  desperate  sigh  of  her  own. 
Nothing,  it  seemed,  was  there  in  this  world  to  break 
down  the  implacable  resolve  of  that  grim  and  unre 
lenting  spirit  —  not  even  the  imminence  of  death,  or 
its  escape  from  it. 

418 


MISS  MARIA  DETERMINES 

"  Mrs.  Pinchin  —  no!  But  won't  you  answer  a 
question  of  mine?  Won't  you  please  tell  me  whether 
you  are  really  my  mother?  I  have  been  told  so,  but 
you  have  not  admitted  it  yet.  I  think  I  'd  rather 
know  the  truth  now,  whatever  it  is,  than  to  go  on  in 
miserable  doubt.  Please,"  said  Corrie,  gently; 
"  won't  you  please  tell  me?  " 

Miss  Maria  got  up  and  stood  by  the  bed.  "  Ah ! 
Judie  —  now!  "  she  groaned,  and  held  out  both  her 
hands  in  appeal.  "  Think  how  I  've  begged  for 
years ! " 

The  finger  scratched  once  on  the  covering,  and 
paused.  Mrs.  Pinchin's  eye  rolled  around,  and  then 
with  an  effort,  she  moved  her  head  on  the  pillows. 
Miss  Maria's  arms  were  thrust  out  a  little  further, 
and  there  was  a  suggestion  that  Miss  Maria  had 
plans  of  falling  on  her  knees.  Angrily,  once  again, 
the  finger  scratched  its  displeasure;  but  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin's  eye  closed,  and  she  seemed  to  muse. 

A  full  minute  passed,  the  clock  on  Mrs.  Pinchin's 
mantel  ticking  swiftly,  as  if  with  a  galloping  ur 
gency  of  haste.  But  Mrs.  Pinchin  took  her  time. 
Once  her  eye  opened,  looked  at  Corrie  and  closed 
again.  Afterward,  the  thick  eyelid  lifted  wide  enough 
for  a  peep  at  Miss  Maria.  Mrs.  Pinchin  mused  a 
little  more. 

"  Yes ;  I  guess  so,"  she  said,  as  if  in  answer  to  a 
question;  and  then  she  looked  quietly  in  Corrie's 
face.  Miss  Maria  clasped  her  hands  together,  and 
the  waterworks  got  ready. 

"I'm  your  mother,"  said  Mrs.  Pinchin,  slowly; 
419 


CORRIE  WHO? 

"  I  will  not  deny  it  now.  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin,  and  slowly  closed  her  eye.  "  I  'm  your 
mother!" 

"  Oh,  my  God,"  said  Miss  Maria,  with  great  sim 
plicity;  and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands. 

Corrie,  dazed  and  overwhelmed,  stared  at  her  as 
if  she  could  not  believe:  yet  after  all,  what  else  was 
there  to  do  ?  There  was  no  reason  to  doubt  it  now ; 
Mrs.  Pinchin  had  made  her  confession,  and  why  at 
this  extremity  should  she  tell  anything  but  the  truth  ? 
Corrie  pressed  both  hands  to  her  cheeks,  and  looked 
down  at  the  woman  lying  on  the  bed. 

"  Mother !  —  then  how  could  you  have  treated  me 
•  so?  Mother,  how  could  you  do  it?  " 

"  Because  —  "  rumbled  Mrs.  Pinchin,  in  a  weak, 
irresolute  voice;  and  then  she  paused.  Her  eye  had 
closed,  and  the  mouth  stitched  up  into  its  wried  trav 
esty  of  mirth,  tried  to  work  its  lips  together.  After 
ward,  her  throat,  tinted  to  the  hue  of  stained  ivory, 
rippled  with  a  little  spasmodic  reflex  of  swallowing, 
and  when  she  spoke  again,  it  was  in  a  voice  that  made 
no  concealment  of  its  sincerity  and  anguish. 

"  Because,  I  'd  tried  to  keep  it  from  you.  I  could 
not  let  you  know.  I  tried  to  hide  the  truth,  and  not 
to  let  you  understand.  I  did  n't  know  what  might 
happen  if  you  found  out.  I  couldn't  let  you." 

"  But  mother ;  why  were  you  so  unkind  and  un 
feeling  and  cruel  ?  Why  were  n't  you  j  ust  a  little 
kind  ?  —  And  why  did  n't  you  let  me  know, 
mother?  I  was  your  own  child  and  I  would  have 
understood.  Don't  you  see  that  I  could  have  loved 

420 


MISS  MARIA  DETERMINES 

you,  then,  and  thought  of  you,  as  a  child  should 
think  of  its  mother?  But  you  wouldn't  let  me,  and 
now  it  's  all  too  late  —  though  I  '11  try  to  love  you. 
You  are  my  mother  —  but  why  —  Oh !  how  could  you 
treat  me  so  mother?  " 

"  Because  -  '  said  Mrs.  Pinchin,  and  licked  her 
lips.  "  Because,"  she  said  again  and  rolled  her  eye 
around.  "  Why,  because  I  was  too  —  because  I  —  I 
had  to  think  of  my  virtue!  " 

"  Oh  my  God !  "  said  Miss  Maria,  with  complete 
ness,  and  rose  unsteadily  to  her  feet. 

"  I  remembered  my  shame,"  croaked  Mrs.  Pinchin, 
and  said  no  more. 

It  was  the  nurse  who  brought  the  situation  to  a 
close.  Whether  by  chance,  or  through  some  instinct 
of  her  profession  that  warned  of  what  was  going  on, 
she  popped  in  her  head  at  the  door  just  as  Mrs. 
Pinchin  had  made  her  declaration.  Instantly,  the 
quick  eye  told  what  was  wrong,  and  with  no  further 
ado,  the  nurse  ordered  both  Corrie  and  Miss  Maria 
from  the  room,  and  set  to  work  on  her  patient. 

But  even  then  Mrs.  Pinchin  was  not  to  die.  Once 
again,  she  had  played  with  the  thunderbolts,  and 
juggled  them  at  will;  unscathed,  she  still  lived,  in 
violate. 

Poor  Corrie !  After  a  half -hour  at  it,  she  sat  up 
on  her  bed,  looked  feverishly  across  at  the  dressing- 
glass,  and  then  got  up  and  bathed  her  eyes  in  cold 
water.  Eau  de  cologne  might  have  done  better,  as 
it  is  the  usual  remedy  prescribed  for  young  heroines 

421 


CORRIE  WHO? 

in  such  extremities ;  but  Corrie  did  n't  own  any  and 
it 's  doubtful  whether  she  would  have  used  it  if  she 
had.  Still  cold  water  does  pretty  well,  after  all; 
and  when  an  hour  later  she  came  down  the  stairs, 
she  was  more  or  less  restored,  —  that  is,  in  color,  if 
not  in  spirits. 

For  now,  after  all  the  ups  and  downs  of  hope,  life 
had  established  itself  for  her  in  a  rut  so  desperately 
hopeless  that  it  was  hardly  worth  the  anguish  of 
traveling  such  a  road.  It  was  a  road  that  led  no 
where  except  back  to  the  starting  point.  Who 
walked  upon  it,  though  innocent  of  the  fault  that  set 
them  there,  journeyed  alone,  shunned  and  desolate. 
Corrie  owned  no  philosophy  to  help  look  on  the 
brighter  side.  There  was  no  brighter  side,  of  course ; 
and  she  sat  down  in  a  corner  of  the  drawing-room 
and  stared  at  the  pattern  of  the  carpet. 

It  was  a  body  Brussels  carpet,  a  florid,  extraordi 
nary  weave,  selected  according  to  Mrs.  Pinchin's 
curious  taste.  On  a  field  maroon  bloomed  exotically, 
incredibly  exotic  roses  of  a  hue  and  size  unimagin 
able.  Its  border  was  an  arrangement  of  pale  green 
daisies  set  between  lines  of  magenta;  and  the  lines, 
gathering  in  a  complicated  scroll  work  at  the  corners, 
swept  along  beside  the  wainscot,  loudly  crying  at 
tention  from  the  eye.  Unconsciously,  one's  eye  fol 
lowed  the  track  around  the  room,  released  from  its 
thrall  only  when  a  piece  of  furniture  broke  in  on  the 
continuity  of  that  rowdy  strip.  So  Corrie,  poring 
on  the  carpet,  began  to  follow  its  border  line  with  a 
moody  thoughtfulness. 

422 


MISS  MARIA  DETERMINES 

She  did  not  hear  the  key  clicking  in  the  door  out 
side.  Nor  was  she  aware  afterwards  of  the  door 
slowly  opening,  and  then,  as  slyly  closing.  Her 
glance  fixed  subconsciously  on  the  scrollwork  in  the 
nearest  corner,  spun  dizzily  among  its  arabesques 
and  then  darted  down  the  room  to  the  next  corner, 
where  it  paused  long  enough  to  disentangle  itself 
from  the  curlycues.  Subsequently,  it  skipped  along 
down  the  wainscot  toward  the  door,  dodging  on  the 
way  a  fat,  gilt  chair;  a  stand  with  brass  legs  and 
claw  feet ;  and  an  enameled  milking  stool  decorated 
with  a  garter  of  pink  ribbon;  and  arriving  at  the 
portieres,  came  to  a  full  stop  of  astonishment  at  the 
sight  of  a  pair  of  shoes. 

They  were  men's  shoes,  and  in  them  was  a  man. 

"  Ah,  my  dear  young  girl,"  said  Mr.  Stanton, 
pushing  aside  the  hangings ;  "  how  very  fortunate 
to  find  you  here  alone." 

She  started  up,  her  lips  parted,  her  hand  flying 
to  her  breast.  Speechless,  Corrie  looked  at  him, 
and  had  Uncle  Stanwood  not  turned  at  the  mo 
ment  to  draw  the  portieres  a  little  closer,  he  would 
have  seen  the  look  of  repugnance  rising  in  her 
eyes. 

"  It  is  charming  to  see  you  again,  my  dear,"  he 
said,  strolling  toward  her,  one  hand  elegantly  strok 
ing  a  whisker  tip;  "most  pleasant,  particularly 
when  I  came  here  for  that  very  purpose.  Won't 
you  sit  down  again?  " 

Corrie  managed  to  speak.  "What  do  you  wish, 
Mr.  Stanton?  "  she  asked  in  a  voice  that  was  gentle, 

423 


CORRIE  WHO? 

because  she  had  not  been  able  to  raise  it  above  a 
whisper.     "  Why  do  you  come  here  —  now?  " 

"  To  see  you,  my  dear.  A  very  good  reason,  too, 
I  should  say."  Mr.  Stanton  smiled  pleasantly,  and 
drew  up  a  chair.  "  You  will  be  seated,  won't  you  ?  " 
He  glanced  smilingly  toward  the  door.  "  We  are 
alone,  and  there  is  something  I  have  to  say." 

Again  with  an  effort,  Corrie  spoke.  "  What  is  it 
you  wish,  Mr.  Geikie?  " 

"  Ah !  my  name  —  yes,  of  course."  He  again 
motioned  to  the  chair.  "  But  I  beg  you  to  sit 
down." 

Because  Corrie's  knees  seemed  too  weak  to  sus 
tain  her,  she  sat  or  rather  fell  upon  a  chair. 

"  Yes  —  Geikie,  of  course.  My  dear,  there  were 
many  reasons  why  it  was  necessary  to  obscure  my 
real  identity  under  the  other  name. 

"  In  the  first  place,  one  of  my  position  could  not 
afford  to  mix  on  terms  of  equality  with  the  persons 
I  have  met  here.  Rather  singular  acquaintances 
Mrs.  Pinchin  has  —  don't  you  think  so?  But  amus 
ing  —  amusing !  You  cannot  fancy  how  much  sport 
I  have  had  in  watching  them  at  their  social  antics." 
Corrie  fixed  her  eyes  on  him  intently,  as  he  threw 
back  his  head  to  laugh  lightly.  "  You  see,"  he  con 
tinued,  "  I  came  here  to  watch  them,  they  were 
so  thoroughly  entertaining;  though,  of  course,  I 
could  n't  permit  persons  like  that  to  know  me. 
A  man  in  my  position  could  n't  afford  it.  No, 
indeed;  it  would  have  declassed  me  among  my 
friends." 

424 


MISS  MARIA  DETERMINES 

Friends  ?  thought  Corrie ;  former  friends,  per 
haps,  by  whom  he  was  already  too  well  known  to 
suffer  any  further  disparagement.  Mr.  Stanton 
beamed  anew,  as  he  again  began  tugging  at  his 
whisker  tip. 

"  However,  my  dear,  it  was  not  on  the  topic  of 
Mrs.  Pinchin's  queer  acquaintances  that  I  came  to 
see  you.  No,  it  was  on  a  matter  much  more  impor 
tant  to  yourself.  About  you,  in  fact,"  said  Uncle 
Stanwood,  and  hitched  his  chair  a  little  closer. 

"  My  dear  girl,"  he  murmured  abruptly,  "  I  have 
come  to  make  a  reparation.  Ah,  don't  think  I 
have  n't  seen  what  has  been  going  on  in  this  house. 
It  has  been  cruel  and  shameful  —  a  young  girl, 
sweet  and  unprotected  —  and  then  to  be  treated  so. 
Oh,  I  think  it  abominable,  shameful!  —  and  I  won 
der  that  Mrs.  Pinchin  has  allowed  it." 

The  girl  felt  her  heart  leap,  drum  wildly  in  her 
breast,  and  then  subside,  leaving  the  color  drawn 
from  her  face.  "  Mr.  Stanton,  did  you  come  here 
to  tell  me  this?"  she  asked,  in  a  fluttering  voice. 
"  Do  you  think  I  '11  listen  to  you  —  to  you,  mocking 
me  like  that,  when  I  know  what  part  you  have  had 
in  it?  Stand  aside  and  let  me  pass.  You! " 

"  I?  "  interrupted  Mr.  Stanton.  "  I  had  nothing 
to  do  with  it.  On  the  contrary,  I  did  my  best  to 
prevent  it." 

Corrie  fell  back  in  her  chair,  her  eyes  distended. 
What  did  he  mean?  "  You  had  nothing  to  do  with 
it?  "  she  cried,  and  felt  her  heart  leap  again.  "  Do 

you  give  me  your  word  of  honor "  She  laughed 

425 


CORRIE  WHO? 

wildly.  What  would  a  creature  like  this  scamp  of  a 
father  know  of  a  thing  like  honor.  "  Do  you  mean  to 
tell  me  that  you  are  not  the  one  responsible?  Who 
was,  then  ?  "  she  cried  scornfully ;  "  since  you  seem 
to  know." 

Uncle  Stanwood  eyed  her  in  some  astonishment. 
"  My  dear  girl !  I  refer  to  my  scoundrelly  young 
nephew,  and  the  shameful  way  he  has  treated  you. 
This  is  what  I  mean.  I  fail  to  see  how  I  could 
have  prevented  it,"  observed  Mr.  Stanton,  blandly ; 
"  though  I  really  tried  —  I  really  did.  You  saw  how 
the  young  whelp  tried  to  assault  me  when  he  found  I 
had  learned  of  his  villainy." 

Corrie  stilled  an  hysterical  desire  to  laugh  and  an 
equally  wild  impulse  to  throw  back  her  head  and 
scream.  Uncle  Stanwood  crossed  his  knees,  and  with 
a  hand  gracefully  clutching  one  lapel  of  his  coat 
and  the  other  idly  combing  out  his  flowing  whisker, 
leaned  back  pleasantly  and  smiled.  But  Uncle  Stan- 
wood  smiled  often  —  he  was  always  smiling ;  and 
never  before  had  the  girl  felt  so  complete  and  de 
grading  a  horror  for  the  man  as  that  which  now 
began  to  steal  upon  her. 

"  What  is  it  that  you  mean,  Mr.  Stanton  —  Mr. 
Geikie  ?  "  she  corrected  herself.  "  Why  have  you 
come  here  to  see  me  ?  " 

"  Why  ?  —  oh,  that  is  a  very  simple  matter  to  tell 
you.  My  dear  young  girl,  I  come  here  to  pay  you 
the  very  highest  courtesy  in  my  power."  He  raised 
his  hand  to  still  her.  "  No  —  wait  before  you  say 
anything.  I  must  fully  explain  myself."  Drawing 

426 


MISS  MARIA  DETERMINES 

his  chair  even  a  little  nearer,  Mr.  Stanton  leaned  to 
ward  her ;  and  at  the  look  on  his  face,  the  girl  shrank 
away.  "  Dear  girl,"  said  Mr.  Stanton,  softly,  "  I 
know  how  that  young  scoundrel  has  forced  himself 
on  you,  only  in  the  end  to  show  himself  in  his  true 
colors.  I  know  all  about  it,  since  Mrs.  Pinchin  has 
told  me.  But  I  do  not  wish  you  to  think  all  the  men 
of  his  family  are  like  him.  No,  I  should  like  you  to 
believe  one,  at  least,  is  honorable,  whatever  you  think 
of  the  others.  Now  this  young  blackguard  has 
thrown  you  over;  he  has  led  you  on,  only  to  jilt  you, 
as  I  have  been  informed,  and,  therefore,  I  wish  to 
make  amends.  Besides,  I  have  seen  that  I  am  not  ut- 
.terly  distasteful  to  you."  He  glanced  at  her  as  if 
further  to  assure  himself  so.  "  I  recall,  you  know," 
said  Mr.  Stanton,  affectionately,  "  your  efforts  to 
rescue  me  from  that  young  cub,  Sunday  night,  when, 
'pon  my  soul,  I  believe  he  was  bent  on  murdering  me. 
Yes."  There  he  paused,  and  again  looked  swiftly  at 
the  girl.  "  Oh,  come !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Stanton,  ab 
ruptly,  "  what 's  the  use  of  my  beating  around  the 
bush?  You  see  what  I  'm  driving  at.  The  long  and 
short  of  it  is  that  I  offer  you  a  name  and  home,  my 
girl,  —  something  you  've  never  had  before.  Why, 
a  girl  in  your  fix  ought  to  jump  at  the  chance. 
Come !  is  it  a  go  ?  " 

Corrie  got  to  her  feet,  though  how,  she  was  not 
quite  sure.  Her  heart  had  begun  its  leaping  again, 
and  in  her  soul  was  an  aversion  so  complete  and  ter 
rible  that  she  could  only  stare  at  him  bewitched. 
Then  a  hysterical,  senseless  ripple  of  laughter  burst 

427 


CORRIE  WHO? 

from  her  lips.  "  To  go  with  you  —  a  home !  —  and 
a  name ! " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  assured  Mr.  Stanton,  benevolently ; 
"  I  offer  marriage." 

Corrie  pushed  the  chair  between  them  and  meas 
ured  the  distance  to  the  door.  "  Then,  Mr.  Stan- 
wood  Geikie,"  she  said  with  a  slow  and  cutting 
distinctness,  "  you  are  not  my  father  after  all. 
Thank  God,  I  am  saved  that  shame.  I  see  that  you 
are  nothing  but  a  common  thief  and  cheat." 

And  before  his  hand  could  reach  her,  she  was  gone, 
racing  up  the  stairs,  her  heart  in  despite  its  terror 
and  aversion  singing  a  wild  pagan  of  joy,  in  the  over 
whelming  relief  of  discovery.  For  she  was  free 
now !  Free,  she  sang !  They  could  not  lie  to  her  and 
trick  her  any  more.  Uncle  Stanwood  was  not  her 
father.  Mrs.  Pinchin  was  not  her  mother.  She  was 
sure  of  it  —  as  sure  as  the  sun  was  in  the  sky.  As 
sure  as  she  lived  and  breathed  and  knew.  Free! 
yes !  Free  again,  and  once  more  Corrie  Robinson. 
She  was  Corrie  Who?  if  you  like,  and  to  add  to 
that,  Corrie  What?  if  you  choose.  But  the  old 
certainty  of  doubt  hung  above  her  now  like  a  glori 
ous  benediction.  Not  her  child.  Nor  his  child! 
And  in  the  joy  of  the  discovery,  what  else  could 
matter  ? 

No,  what  else?  thought  Corrie,  panting  as  she 
leaned  against  her  door  and  locked  it.  "  I  must  try 
to  think,"  she  said  weakly,  putting  a  hand  to  her 
brow ;  "  I  must  try  to  think  it  out."  Presently,  she 
slipped  down  to  the  floor,  and  sat  there,  her  back 

428 


"  You  see  what  I  'm  driving  at.  The  long  and  short  of  it 
is  that  I  offer  you  a  name  and  home,  my  girl,  —  some 
thing  you  've  never  had  before." 


MISS  MARIA  DETERMINES 

against  the  panels.  "  I  can't  think,  of  course.  No 
one  could.  But  what 's  the  use  of  thinking,  anyway  ? 
I  might  just  as  well  know." 

Rising  to  her  feet,  Corrie  cautiously  opened  the 
door  and  listened.  Then  she  walked  to  the  stairs  and 
peeped.  No  one  was  in  sight;  the  house  lay  still. 
After  a  moment's  reflection,  she  walked  down  to  the 
floor  below,  and  leaned  over  the  balusters. 

"  Maggie !  Oh,  Maggie !  "  called  Corrie,  in  a  mod 
ulated  voice.  Maggie  was  in  the  dining  room.  "  Yes, 
ma'am ! " 

"  Maggie,  see  whether  there  is  any  one  in  the  draw 
ing-room."  Maggie  favored  her  with  a  blank  stare, 
and  then  with  her  head  tipped  over  inquiringly, 
went  and  looked. 

"  Never  a  one,  ma'am,"  she  reported  concisely. 

"  Are  you  sure  ?  " 

"  And  I  am  that !  Did  n't  I  take  the  full  av  me 
eyes  to  every  corner?  But  maybe  was  you  expecting 
somewan,  y  'd  better  be  lookin'  yerself.  Is  it  the 
young  man,  I  dunno  ?  " 

"  If  he  calls,"  reph'ed  Corrie,  majestically,  "  you 
may  say  that  I  am  home  to  him." 

Maggis  returned  to  her  work.  "Ow!  glory  be! 
an*  what  d'  ye  think  av  that !  " 

But  Corrie  heard  no  echo  of  this  concrete  observa 
tion.  She  had  already  disappeared  into  the  bedroom 
at  her  left. 

"  Miss  Maria,"  said  Corrie,  closing  the  door  be 
hind  her,  "  I  wish  to  speak  to  you." 

Inasmuch  as  Corrie  had  dispensed  with  the  for- 


CORRIE  WHO? 

mality  of  knocking,  Miss  Maria  turned  around  with 
a  startled  exclamation. 

"  Miss  Maria,"  said  Corrie,  her  hands  clenched 
together  at  her  sides,  "  Mr.  Stanton  —  I  mean  Mr. 
Stanwood  Geikie,  was  here  a  few  minutes  ago.  I 
talked  to  him." 

Perhaps  a  half  minute  went  by ;  Corrie  waited 
patiently.  She  saw  first  a  deeper  gray  steal  into 
Miss  Maria's  gray  features ;  then  she  saw  her  catch 
her  breath.  Afterwards  Miss  Maria  blinked;  wet 
her  thin  lips,  and  put  a  hand  to  her  lean,  slender 

throat.    "  Then "    The  word  came  in  a  gagging 

whisper ;  Miss  Maria  tried  again.  "  Then  he  told 
you  everything?  "  she  blurted  out,  and  in  her  voice 
there  was  neither  regret  nor  terror,  but  a  great  and 
convulsing  relief.  Somehow,  she  scrambled  to  her 
feet,  and  stood  clinging  to  the  chair  back.  "  It 
would  be  like  him,"  she  said  simply,  and  wet  her  lips 
again.  "  He  had  told  you,  then?  " 

"  No,  Miss  Maria.  He  only  asked  me  to  marry 
him." 

"  He  asked  you  —  you,  you  say !  —  to  marry  him  ? 
-  Oh !  !  ! " 

But  no  rank  of  slender  types  standing  at  attention 
could  give  to  the  words  the  force  Miss  Maria  put  into 
them.  "  He  asked  you  to  —  that  man !  !  !  "  An 
other  little  row  of  slim  soldiers  firing  another  volley. 
"  Oh,  this  is  too  much.  I  will  not  stand  it  any  longer ! 
And  oh,  merciful  God !  —  to  think  what  I  have  suf 
fered  for  him.  Let  me  by,"  said  Miss  Maria,  and 
struggled  toward  the  door. 

430 


MISS  MARIA  DETERMINES 

"  No !  wait  a  moment,  Miss  Maria."  Corrie 
leaned  against  the  door,  and  clenched  her  hands  a 
little  tighter.  "  You  cannot  trick  and  befuddle  me 
any  more.  I  've  stood  it  all  my  life,  and  now  you  've 
got  to  tell  me.  If  I  go  to  Mrs.  Pinchin  with  this, 
you  know  what  will  happen  to  her.  But  Miss  Maria, 
it 's  killing  me,  too.  And  why  should  I  think  of  her 
when  she  has  never  shown  me  anything  but  cruelty? 
Will  you  tell  me  now?  "  asked  Corrie,  quietly,  but 
determinedly. 

Miss  Maria  made  one  ineffectual  effort  to  get  by 
her.  "Is  Mrs.  Pinchin  my  mother?"  demanded 
Corrie,  a  hand  outstretched. 

**  No,"  said  Miss  Maria,  desperately. 

"  And  Stanwood  Geikie  is  n't  my  father?  " 

"  No !  Oh,  my  God,  no !  "  Miss  Maria  clasped 
her  hands  together  in  appeal.  "  Let  me  out  now, 
won't  you?  As  He  is  my  judge,  I  swear  I  tell  you 
the  truth ! " 

"  Who  am  I  then?    I  think  you  know." 

Miss  Maria's  eyes  went  from  side  to  side,  like  a  rat 
trying  to  escape. 

"  Give  me  a  little  time.  Yes,  I  know.  But  give 
me  a  little  time,  won't  you?  — just  an  hour  will  do. 
I  can't  tell  you  like  this.  Give  me  an  hour.  Don't 
you  see  I  've  got  to  get  my  wits  back?  I  wish  to  tell 
you.  Oh,  I  do !  Don't  be  so  cruel  to  me.  Be  a  little 
kind,  Corrie  — my  own  little  girl  is  dead!  That  poor, 
poor  little  girl  I  took  you  to  see.  She  's  dead,  and 
they  buried  her  all  alone.  She  's  in  her  grave,  Corrie 
—  think  of  that !  —  and  my  sister  would  n't  let  me  go 

431 


CORRIE  WHO? 

and  see  her  buried.  Won't  you  have  a  little  mercy? 
Ah,  don't  be  so  cruel,  Corrie.  I  've  been  a  little  kind 
to  you  —  not  always  cruel  and  wicked.  They  buried 
her  all  alone,  Corrie.  I  could  n't  go  because  Judie 
would  n't  let  me.  She  said  she  'd  die  of  fear  if  I 
left  her.  Give  me  just  an  hour  now,  won't  you 
please?  " 

Then  Corrie  realized.  The  veil  was  torn  away  — 
that  cheating  swindling  fabric  of  lies  —  and  she 
knew.  "  How  could  you  do  it,  Miss  Maria?  "  asked 
Corrie,  plaintively.  She  leaned  over  the  frail,  quiver 
ing,  unlovely,  weeping  creature,  and  put  an  arm 
around  her.  "  How  could  you  do  it  ?  —  poor,  wicked, 
foolish  woman  !  How  could  you  ?  " 

Miss  Maria  shook  against  her  shoulder  for  a 
moment,  and  then  freed  herself.  "  Send  for  Mr. 
Biggamore,"  she  gasped,  and  fled  through  the 
door. 


432 


CHAPTER  XXII 

Depicting  the  arrival  of  the  envoy  extraordinary  at  Mrs. 
Pinchin's  stronghold.  —  How  Phil  was  told  to  go  to  the 
deuce.  —  Miss  Maria  reveals  herself.  —  The  story  of 
Margaret  Tollabee  and  an  inventory  of  her  deceits.  — 
Randolph  Tollabee' s  stepsisters,  and  the  rascally  Stanwood 
Geikie.  —  How  Miss  Maria  got  down  on  her  knees.  — 
The  interrupted  elopement.  —  Judie's  allowance,  and 
what  happened  when  it  was  stopped.  —  How  Miss  Mar 
garet's  prayers  were  answered. 

T  T  was  an  hour  later,  when  Mr.  Biggamore,  hurry- 
•••  ing  to  the  urgency  of  the  summons,  came  panting 
up  the  steps.  The  little  gentleman's  cheeks  were 
puffed  out  with  excitement,  and  after  pushing  the 
bell  button,  not  once,  but  twice,  and  then,  after  re 
flection,  a  third  time,  he  fished  for  his  handkerchief 
and  wrung  forth  such  a  trumpet  blast  as  to  fill  all 
Seventy-fifth  Street  with  its  clarion  echoes.  What  ho, 
within  there!  And  instantly,  within  there,  Mrs. 
Pinchin's  figurative  castle  awoke  with  the  figurative 
unbarring  of  the  grated  gates  and  an  equally  figur 
ative  raising  of  the  portcullis,  whereupon  the  still 
bugling  envoy  extraordinary  pranced  inside  the 
stronghold. 

"  Well,  young  lady !    And  now,  what 's  up  ?  "  in 
quired  Mr.  Biggamore,  concisely,  if  not  formally. 

Corrie  closed  the  door,  and  speechlessly  waved  him 
into  the  drawing-room. 

28  433 


CORRIE  WHO? 

"  Furthermore,"  said  Mr.  Biggamore,  severely, 
making  at  the  same  time  a  painful  effort  to  recover 
both  his  composure  and  his  breath,  "  what  have  you 
been  doing  to  that  young  nephew  of  mine,  these 
last  few  days  ?  " 

Corrie  nervously  twisted  her  fingers  together. 
"  I  don't  know,  Mr.  Biggamore.  Why  ?  " 

The  little  gentleman  paused  long  enough  to  awake 
the  echoes  with  another  fanfare.  "  That  is  for  you 
to  tell  me !  "  he  retorted,  after  blowing  out  his  cheeks. 
"  Just  now  I  meet  him  skulking  at  the  corner,  and 
when  I  inquire  what  he  is  doing  there,  he  mumbles  an 
unintelligible  reply,  and  darts  off  down  the  street.  I 
believe,"  said  Mr.  Biggamore,  indignantly,  "  that 
he  told  me  to  go  to  the  deuce.  I  decline  to  go  to  the 
deuce.  I  will  go  there  for  no  one,  and  much  less  for 
him.  He  may  go  to  the  dickens !  "  exclaimed  Mr. 
Biggamore ;  and  then,  "  I  beg  your  pardon." 

But  after  tugging  his  forelock  long  enough  to  re 
gain  himself,  Mr.  Biggamore  left  off,  and  peered  at 
her.  "  What 's  up?  —  happened,  I  mean." 

"  I  am  going  to  marry  Phil !  "  said  Corrie,  blush 
ing  frightfully.  "  Yes  —  that  is,  I  think  so  —  if 
he  '11  still  have  me." 

Mr.  Biggamore  sat  down  suddenly  and  put  his 
hands  on  his  knees.  "  I  beg  your  pardon.  You 
said ?" 

"  If  I  'm  who  I  think  I  am,"  added  Corrie, 
quietly. 

"  But  you  're  Mrs.  Pinchin's  daughter."  By  an 
extremely  narrow  margin,  Mr.  Biggamore  averted  an 

434 


THE  STORY  OF  MARGARET  TOLLABEE 

explosion.  Great  credit  here,  for  the  little  gentle 
man's  heroism;  —  he  might  blow  up  subsequently, 
but  he  was  still  holding  the  prow  against  the  bank. 

"No  —  I  am  not !  "  said  Corrie.  Her  chubby  vis 
a-vis  was  still  manfully  containing  himself  long 
enough  for  the  allegorical  women  and  children  to  get 
ashore.  "  No  —  and  I  'm  not  in  the  least  —  well, 
not  related  to  Stanwood  Geikie,  you  know.  Miss 
Maria  has  said  so." 

"  Miss  Maria?  Now  who  in  the  —  I  beg  your  par 
don.  Oh,  yes ;  I  'd  forgotten  there  was  another 
female  mixed  up  in  this." 

"  And  you  still  don't  know  who  she  is  ?  "  inquired 
Corrie.  There  a  footfall  sounded  in  the  hall;  Miss 
Maria  had  heard  the  doorbell;  and  if  one  considers 
what  lay  on  Miss  Maria's  mind  and  soul,  she  must 
have  arisen  and  come  to  that  summons  like  the  con 
demned,  who,  on  the  fated  dawn,  hears  the  prison  bell 
begin  to  toll.  With  her  eyes  set  before  her,  she 
trudged  along  the  hall,  in  her  hands  a  bundle  of  pa 
pers  that  she  held  up  like  a  crucifix ;  and  parting  the 
hangings  at  the  door,  she  marched  straight  across  the 
room  to  Mr.  Biggamore.  There  she  paused,  and 
looked  at  him,  about  as  Lady  Jane  Grey  must  have 
looked  at  the  headsman  when  she  took  her  place  at 
the  block. 

"  This  is  Miss  Maria,"  said  Corrie,  with  a  little 
frown  of  compassion. 

But  there,  like  Jim  Bludso  — or  Jim  Bludso's 
boat  —  Mr.  Biggamore  gave  up.  Or,  rather,  he 

blew  up. 

435 


CORRIE  WHO? 

"  Why,  it 's  Margaret  Tollabee !  "  he  exploded, 
and  stood  with  his  mouth  agape. 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Biggamore.  And  now  that  you  have 
driven  us  into  a  corner,  it 's  time  to  end  the  farce." 
Miss  Maria  perched  herself  sideways  on  the  edge  of 
a  chair,  and  blinked  at  him  almost  stolidly. 

"  But  your  hair  —  her  hair !  "  cried  Mr.  Bigga 
more,  dumbfoundedly ;  "  it  was  snow  white.  I  looked 
at  it  particularly." 

"  A  wig,"  answered  Miss  Maria,  explicitly,  in  a 
small,  expressionless  voice.  "  I  've  got  it  put  away 
in  a  bandbox." 

Then,  as  if  by  inspiration,  Corrie  recalled  the 
bandbox  that  Mrs.  Pinchin  had  brought  home  with 
her,  and  which  she  had  so  jealously  guarded  from 
Miss  Freedlark's  gaily  prying  curiosity. 

"  Did  she  go  and  buy  it  ?  Mrs.  Pinchin  made  you 
put  it  on?" 

"  Yes ;  Judie  thought  I  'd  better  wear  one," 
answered  Miss  Maria,  frankly.  "  I  was  a  fool." 
Then  she  sighed.  "  She  asked  me  to  use  an  ear 
trumpet,  too,  because  you  'd  have  to  speak  up  louder, 
Mr.  Biggamore,  and  she  wanted  to  hear  what  you  'd 
say.  She  was  behind  the  folding  door."  Miss  Maria 
drew  a  deep  breath  through  her  nose.  "  But  I 
would  n't  act  a  lie  like  that.  The  wig  was  as  far 
as  I  'd  go." 

Mr.  Biggamore  clung  to  his  knee-caps,  as  if  the 
solid  ground  were  about  to  swim  out  from  under, 
and  leave  him  hanging  in  space. 

"  You  see  here ! "  he  blurted  out,  indignantly ; 
436 


THE  STORY  OF  MARGARET  TOLLABEE 

"  what  'd  you   two   women   mean  —  like  that ! by 

making  a  fool  of  me?  " 

Miss  Maria  meekly  dropped  her  eyes.  She  played 
with  her  fingers  for  a  moment,  and  then  suddenly 
looked  up.  In  the  moment,  her  face  had  squared  it 
self  with  determination,  and  she  thrust  out  her  lower 
lip. 

"  Listen !  "  said  Miss  Maria,  whom  one  must  still 
so  term,  though  she  was  really  Margaret  Tollabee; 
"  now  listen  to  me !  "  she  said  harshly.  "  I  'm  willing 
to  tell  everything ;  but  first  of  all,  I  'm  going  to 
make  a  bargain."  She  swung  around  in  her  chair 
until  she  faced  Corrie.  "  Will  you  promise,  if  I  tell 
—  will  you  promise  on  your  sacred  word  of  honor, 
you  won't  do  anything  to  Judie  —  not  sue  us,  or  do 
anything  like  that  ?  " 

Mr.  Biggamore  leaped  excitedly  to  his  feet.  "  Re 
fuse  !  Don't  you  do  it !  It 's  outrageous !  There 
may  be  the  money,  too.  How  do  we  know  who  's  got 
it?" 

Miss  Maria  turned  to  him  scornfully.  "  Is  this  a 
time  to  talk  of  money?  Do  you  suppose  this  girl 
thinks  of  money?  Ah!  how  I  hate  the  sound  of 
it !  —  money?  when  I  'm  going  to  tell  her  who  she  is? 
We  can  account  for  every  penny  of  it,  and  I  '11  sur 
prise  you  too,  when  I  come  to  that.  Money !  Faugh ! 
Is  it  a  promise?  " 

"  If  you  '11  say  who  I  am,"  answered  Corrie,  pite- 
ously,  "  I  '11  promise  anything.  Oh,  Miss  Maria,  I 
won't  harm  you  or  Mrs.  Pinchin,  no  matter  what 
you  've  done." 

437 


CORRIE  WHO? 

"  Come !  "  growled  Mr.  Biggamore,  wrathfully ; 
"  is  this  girl  Mrs.  Pinchin's  daughter,  or " 

"  Lies,"  answered  Miss  Maria,  grinning  outrage 
ously,  but  without  mirth. 

"  —  or  Stanwood  Geikie's  ?  "  exploded  Mr.  Big- 
gamore. 

"  Lies  —  all  lies,"  answered  Miss  Maria,  and 
fanned  herself  nervously  with  her  bundle  of  papers. 
"  Everything  was  lies.  I  have  n't  drawn  a  truthful 
breath  for  nearly  fifteen  years.  I  've  lied  to  her 
and  I  've  lied  to  you  and  I  've  lied  to  the  world.  I  've 
lied  to  God  so  that  I  have  n't  dared  to  stick  my  nose 
inside  a  church  from  the  time  I  first  began  to  lie." 
She  stopped  and  caught  her  breath,  and  then  went 
on  again  until  she  was  breathless.  "  Mrs.  Pinchin 
was  a  lie.  I  was  a  lie.  I  turned  my  own  poor  little 
crippled  baby  into  a  lie.  Now  she  's  dead,  in  punish 
ment  of  me,  and  even  when  they  buried  her  alone,  I 
had  to  lie  and  say  she  was  n't  mine.  Oh,  in  His  name, 
what  lies !  "  gasped  Miss  Maria,  her  mouth  opening 
in  a  sob;  and  thus  having  finished  the  catalogue  of 
her  deceits,  Miss  Maria  sat  up,  with  the  waterworks 
playing  their  accompaniment,  and  turned  around  to 
Corrie. 

"You're  Dorothy  Tollabee,"  she  said;  "Ran 
dolph  Tollabee's  daughter." 

And  so,  for  the  first  time,  to  the  accompaniment  of 
tears  flying  like  rain  on  a  hill,  the  story  of  the  absurd 
and  ridiculous  cheat  was  told. 

At  the  best,  it  had  been  only  a  clumsy  farce,  a  kind 
438 


THE  STORY  OF  MARGARET  TOLLABEE 

of  scherzo  jingling  in  syncopated  measure  to  the  de 
risive  jig-step  of  fate.  From  the  beginning,  the  two 
women  must  have  foreseen  its  disastrous  outcome, 
Miss  Maria,  year  after  year,  begging  to  have  done 
with  it,  and  half  beside  herself  with  terror  and  with 
shame;  Mrs.  Pinchin,  grim  and  implacably  deter 
mined,  still  hanging  on  and  resolved  in  the  face  of 
discovery  —  indeed,  even  in  the  face  of  death !  —  to 
cling  desperately  to  the  booty  and  to  surrender 
nothing  till  her  last  rampart  was  stormed. 

For  it  was  her  greed,  and  only  that,  which  had  been 
at  the  bottom  of  it  —  greed  and  a  rapacious  ava 
rice.  Sipping,  tasting,  guzzling,  gorging,  and  what 
not,  she  had  sworn,  in  fact,  that  she  would  tempt 
jail  before  she  would  give  up  her  comforts ;  and  year 
by  year,  still  clinging  to  them,  she  had  so  fattened 
herself  in  self-indulgence  that  the  ego  in  her  cosmos 
obscured  everything  else  in  sight.  Pity  and  compas 
sion  were  gone ;  in  their  place  she  felt  only  the  hatred 
we  breed  against  those  we  have  injured;  and  center 
ing  every  thought  in  herself,  Mrs.  Pinchin,  in  time, 
had  developed  the  traits  that,  had  she  been  a  man, 
would  have  made  her  either  a  historical  rascal,  or,  on 
the  other  hand,  a  multi-millionaire.  Indeed,  it  had 
gone  so  far  that  Miss  Maria  was  frightened  by  it, 
and  it  is  a  question,  if  Corrie  had  not  found  out  for 
herself,  whether  she  would  not,  in  her  fear  of  some 
thing  worse,  have  come  forward  and  confessed  the 
secret. 

But  Miss  Maria,  even  though  owning  up  to  the 
crime,  was  her  sister's  able  protestant.  "  I  don't  say 

439 


CORRIE  WHO? 

she  was  right  —  no,  Judie  was  pretty  cruel.  But 
then  she  had  an  excuse.  Randolph  had  told  us  he  'd 
see  we  had  all  the  money  we  needed ;  —  that  was  after 
our  mother  died,  his  stepmother,  you  know  —  and  he 
promised  Judie,  too,  he  'd  help  her  get  on  socially. 
Her  head  was  always  filled  with  ideas  about  getting 
up  in  the  world  and  giving  grand  parties  and  becom 
ing  a  great  lady.  Yes  !  —  and  oh !  can't  you  see 
what  it 's  come  to  now?  It  was  that  fever  of  hers  to 
shine  that  brought  us  to  the  first  step  in  our  down 
fall.  Judie  said  she  'd  have  to  know  French,  if  she 
was  going  to  get  on  with  the  best  people!  "  The 
words  came  forth  from  between  her  teeth,  uttered 
savagely  and  with  an  explosive  vehemence.  "  The 
best  people !  Faugh !  She  'd  let  them  walk  over  her, 
if  she  could  only  get  near  enough  to  them  —  and 
they  'd  trample  on  her,  too,  I  think !  But,  anyway, 
Judie  had  to  learn  French,  so  she  hired  that 
young  girl,  Leonie  Giraud  —  your  mother,  you  un 
derstand,"  said  Miss  Maria,  without  looking  at  Cor- 
rie,  and  still  staring  at  the  floor.  "  And  about  that 
time,  too,"  she  continued,  gritting  her  teeth,  "  Ran 
dolph  brought  Stanwood  Geikie  to  our  home." 

The  papers  in  her  hand  crumpled  together,  at 
this  stage,  with  the  force  of  Miss  Maria's  convulsive 
grip  on  them.  "  Yes  —  he  brought  that  man  there, 
and  Judie  set  her  cap  at  him." 

"Eh?"  exclaimed  Mr.  Biggamore,  astonished. 

"  Oh,  yes  —  and  so  did  I,  for  that  matter,"  droned 
Miss  Maria,  listlessly. 

For  so,  indeed,  it  had  been.  Stanwood  Geikie  had 
440 


THE  STORY  OF  MARGARET  TOLLABEE 

seen  the  interest  the  two  women  evinced  in  him,  and 
forthwith  he  had  set  out  to  profit  by  it.  Tollabee 
was  in  frail  health;  he  might  not  live  long;  and 
Stanwood  Geikie  had  already  been  told  by  him  that 
in  event  of  his  death,  his  money  would  go  to  his  step 
sisters.  It  is  true,  of  course,  that  Tollabee  had  al 
ways  regretted  his  father's  second  marriage;  but 
the  step-mother  had  been  kind  to  him ;  he  had  grown 
up  amiably  with  the  girls,  and  while  they  were  much 
older  than  he,  the  gentle,  affectionate,  shy,  and  gen 
erous  man  had  come  in  time  to  be  fond  of  them. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  vague  whispers  against 
Stanwood  Geikie  had  begun  to  spread.  His  name 
among  women  was  known;  his  fortune  had  been 
squandered  in  ways  by  which  no  gentleman  may  spend 
his  money  and  still  remain  gentle;  and  though  he 
was  grudgingly  tolerated  at  his  clubs,  there  were 
many  other  doors  in  New  York  already  closed  against 
him.  So  in  Randolph  Tollabee's  sisters,  the  cal 
culating  Mr.  Geikie,  then  well  on  toward  forty,  had 
seen  a  way  to  recoup  himself,  to  get  a  little  ready 
money  in  hand,  and  perhaps  once  more  to  set  himself 
on  his  feet.  In  so  many  words,  he  decided  he  would 
marry  one  of  the  two  —  which  one,  it  did  n't  matter 
in  the  least. 

"  I  was  a  good  looking  girl  then  —  Oh,  you 
need  n't  stare !  "  said  Miss  Maria,  darting  a  look  at 
Mr.  Biggamore,  "  and  Judie,  too.  She  was  big  and 
handsome ;  a  fine,  tall  woman  with  snappy  eyes.  But 
Judie  was  getting  on.  She  'd  had  chances,  only  Judie 
got  it  into  her  head  she  'd  marry  only  a  gentleman. 

441 


CORRIE  WHO? 

Faugh !  —  and  if  a  man  of  our  own  class  asked 
her  —  there  was  more  than  one,  too  —  Judie  'd  only 
sneer  at  him.  So,  after  a  while,  all  the  men  we  'd 
known  kept  away,  and  then  this  Stanwood  Geikie 

came Oh,  well,  you  know  what  happened  after 

that,"  added  Miss  Maria,  listlessly. 

"  No,  we  don't !  "  corrected  Mr.  Biggamore,  earn 
estly  ;  "  go  on  and  tell  us  everything." 

So  Miss  Maria,  as  directed,  told  everything. 

Stanwood  Geikie,  it  appeared,  had  been  extremely 
catholic  in  his  attentions,  though,  at  the  same  time, 
equally  secretive.  Neither  had  suspected  his  doings 
with  the  other;  and  to  Judie,  as  it  turned  out,  he 
had  made  his  first  declaration.  But  Judie,  as  one 
learned,  had  been  a  bit  of  a  coquette.  She  had  been 
immensely  pleased  by  the  man's  interest  in  her ;  yet 
so  far  from  accepting  him  outright,  she  'd  thought 
it  part  of  a  fine  lady  to  keep  him  dangling  awhile. 
Stanwood  Geikie,  however,  was  in  no  mood  to  play 
the  mouse  to  Judie's  tabbikins ;  for  though  Judie's 
step-brother  had  not  yet  learned  of  the  gentleman's 
queer  repute  in  other  quarters,  there  was  every  rea 
son  to  believe  he  would  soon  enough,  and  the  matter 
argued  haste.  So  in  a  silent  but  boiling  passion  at 
Judie  the  flirt,  the  impatient  lover  hurriedly  trans 
ferred  all  his  attentions  to  the  other  sister,  Miss 
Margaret,  whose  full,  given  name,  by  the  way,  was 
Margaret  Maria. 

It  was  a  fine,  enterprising  little  comedy ;  for, 
furthermore,  while  these  three  were  prosecuting 
their  own  involved  love  affairs,  Randolph  Tollabee, 

442 


THE  STORY  OF  MARGARET  TOLLABEE 

in  a  quieter,  more  simple  way,  was  carrying  on  his 
own.  "  One  day,"  narrated  Miss  Maria,  dully,  with 
out  emotion,  "  our  step-brother  came  home  and  told 
us  he  was  engaged  to  the  French  girl.  Judie,  she 
nearly  fainted." 

For  Judie,  it  appeared,  had  even  then  been  self- 
centered  enough  to  see  at  a  flash  what  effect  her  step 
brother's  marriage  would  have  on  her  future  pros 
pects.  Still,  she  managed  to  hide  her  rage  and  dis 
appointment  ;  and  when  the  young  French  girl  came 
again,  Judie  glided  up  to  her  and  with  a  face  like  the 
mask  of  death  managed  to  control  herself  far  enough 
to  plant  a  Judas-kiss  on  the  girl's  cheek. 

Had  Stanwood  Geikie  learned  at  once  of  the  im 
pending  marriage,  it  is  doubtful  whether  the  subse 
quent  events  would  have  taken  place.  For  the  sisters, 
through  a  subtle  instinct  of  the  man's  real  nature, 
concealed  the  announcement  from  him,  each  one  se 
cretly  laying  her  plans.  Judie,  knowing  now  she 
had  gone  too  far,  tried  furiously  to  repair  the  dam 
age  ;  the  deferred  yes  was  volunteered  offhand ;  but 
Mr.  Geikie,  not  seeing  a  way  to  clear  himself  from  the 
other  entanglement,  or  willing  to  take  no  risks,  when 
he  had  the  matter  fully  in  hand,  coolly  replied  that 
he  had  made  other  arrangements,  and  so  left  Judie  to 
her  reflections. 

It  was  about  this  time,  too,  that  Phil's  father, 
Morton  Geikie,  had  given  to  his  brother  Stanwood 
another  chance.  He,  that  is,  Morton  Geikie,  was 
associated  in  a  bond  concern  with  both  Tollabee  and 
Mr.  Biggamore;  and  for  the  first  time  since  the 

oo 

443 


CORRIE  WHO? 

squandering  of  his  fortune  Stanwood  Geikie  began 
earning  a  little  money  in  other  ways  than  by  his 
wits.  But  so  far  from  appreciating  his  brother's 
kindness,  the  man  secretly  raged  at  getting  nothing 
better  than  a  clerkship,  and  having  his  hands  near 
to  so  much  ready  cash,  he  discreetly  availed  himself 
of  the  opportunity. 

Thereafter  events  hurried  swiftly.  Rumors  were 
heard  about  Stanwood  Geikie's  name  among  women. 
Randolph  Tollabee's  door  was  closed  against  him,  the 
bond  concern  began  to  wake  up,  and  the  stock  mar 
ket,  after  having  gone  from  bad  to  worse,  broke  un 
charitably,  and  wiped  out  not  only  all  of  Stanwood 
Geikie's  speculations,  but  pricked  the  bubble  of  his 
expectations  too. 

Therefore,  the  marriage !  The  secretive  Miss 
Maria  was  led  secretly  to  a  secret  place,  and  there, 
as  she  was  made  to  believe,  she  became  the  wife  of 
our  gentlemanly  adventurer,  a  fact  —  or  a  theory, 
as  the  case  may  be  —  which,  the  gentleman  was  care 
ful  to  impress  on  her  at  the  time,  must  remain  a 
secret  for  the  present. 

There  were  two  reasons  why  he  went  through  the 
form  —  for  it  was,  at  least,  a  form  —  of  marriage. 
One  was  the  hope  of  falling  heir  to  the  Tollabee 
money,  should  Tollabee  die;  the  other,  and  the  more 
imperative  one  now,  was  that  if  the  embezzlement 
were  discovered  and  the  blame  put  on  the  guilty  per 
son,  Tollabee  would  be  unlikely  to  proceed  against 
him  when  he  found  him  to  be  his  brother-in-law. 

But  the  man  had  not  yet  come  to  the  last  ditch. 
444 


THE  STORY  OF  MARGARET  TOLLABEE 

Therefore  the  marriage  had  been  secret.  If  the 
thief  was  not  discovered,  and  if  Tollabee  left  no 
money  to  his  sisters,  the  ingenious  Mr.  Geikie  would 
be  free  to  prosecute  his  efforts  elsewhere;  he  could 
deny  the  marriage,  and  Miss  Maria,  having  been 
bamboozled  into  allowing  the  knot  to  be  tied  by  an 
alderman,  whose  name  she  had  n't  heard,  and  who  she 
was  not  in  the  least  certain  was  even  the  alderman  as 
he  was  represented  to  be,  —  Miss  Maria,  having  been 
cheated  so,  might  go  and  whistle  for  her  pains. 

Very  thoughtful !  And  very  ingenious,  too !  How 
clearly  our  handsome  picaroon  looked  ahead  into  the 
future  may  also  be  understood  from  the  following 
sequence  of  events. 

Randolph  Tollabee  walked  to  the  altar  with  his 
blushing  little  French  language  teacher;  and  the 
modest  though  flourishing  bond  concern  awoke  to 
the  fact  that  its  assets  had  been  wiped  out  by  a 
theft. 

But,  as  we  already  know,  the  man  had  so  ar 
ranged  matters  beforehand  that  the  guilt  fell  on 
someone  else,  and  that  someone  was  his  brother. 
There  was  no  prosecution ;  Stanwood  Geikie  escaped 
scot  free;  and  Randolph  Tollabee  having  arranged 
to  leave  his  money  elsewhere,  Mr.  Geikie  cheerfully 
disavowed  the  marriage,  though  it  was  at  a  time 
when  Miss  Maria  had  every  reason  to  show  her  cer 
tificate  to  the  world. 

It  was  curious  to  view  her  apathy  when  she  came 
to  this  part  of  her  tale.  Long  years  of  deceit  and 
suffering  had  calloused  Miss  Maria's  mind,  and  she 

445 


CORRIE  WHO? 

told  it  all  with  an  impersonal  frankness  that  was 
very  close  to  the  grotesque.  "  Judie  guessed  it 
first,"  she  said  casually,  with  a  little  sigh,  "  and  was 
going  to  turn  me  out  of  doors." 

But  Judie  had  n't,  after  all.  It  appeared  that 
Judie,  after  raging  a  while  and  saying  all  her  social 
ambitions  would  be  ruined  —  social  ambitions,  mind 
you !  —  Judie  had  stopped  long  enough  to  ask  who 
was  the  author  of  her  sister's  downfall.  Thereupon 
Miss  Maria,  filled  with  shame  and  anguish,  had  de 
clined  to  tell. 

More  raging,  after  that.  More  high  words  and 
thunderbolts  from  the  black,  snappy  eyes.  Then 
Judie,  with  her  usual  decision  of  character,  had  sat 
down  to  think  it  out.  The  upshot  was  that  she  and 
Miss  Maria  exiled  themselves  in  a  quiet  country  town 
on  Long  Island;  and  there,  under  an  assumed 
name,  the  unhappy  woman  remained,  threatened  with 
brain  fever,  until  the  crippled  child  came  into  the 
world. 

"  I  was  called  Mrs.  Pinchin,"  added  Miss  Maria, 
weariedly. 

"  Hey  ?  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Biggamore,  gaping. 

"Oh,  yes;  Judie  gave  it  to  me.  She  just  made 
it  up.  Later  she  took  the  name  for  herself." 

And  so  the  child  came  into  the  world,  a  poor, 
shapeless,  misborn  little  cripple;  and  the  deluded 
mother,  her  shame  concealed  for  a  time,  went  back 
to  the  city  and  took  up  the  burden  of  her  ruined 
existence. 

"  Judie  said  I  'd  have  to  leave  the  baby  —  she 
446 


THE  STORY  OF  MARGARET  TOLLABEE 

was  n't  going  to  take  any  chances.  So  we  came 
home  together,  and  Judie  gave  a  party." 

"  A  what?  "  burst  out  Mr.  Biggamore. 

"  Don't  interrupt  me  so.  It 's  all  I  can  do  any 
way  to  keep  this  business  in  mind."  Miss  Maria 
licked  her  lips  as  she  blinked  at  him.  "  I  tell  you, 
Judie  gave  a  party.  She  always  did  when  she  met 
any  new  people  she  thought  could  help  her.  All 
these  were  new  people  —  about  a  dozen  or  so  —  and 
she  hardly  knew  their  names.  I  don't  know  where 
she  picked  them  up  —  she  was  always  doing  it  — 
and  when  I  dragged  myself  into  the  parlor,  there 
was  Stanwood  Geikie." 

"  But,  good  Heavens ! "  expostulated  Mr.  Bigga 
more,  puffing  up  his  cheeks.  "  Why  —  !  " 

"  You  must  keep  still,  sir.  I  'm  giving  you  the 
facts.  Judie  'd  met  him  again  somewhere  —  in  the 
street,  I  guess  —  and  as  I  'd  refused  to  tell  her  about 
him,  she  still  did  n't  know  who  was  my  baby's  father. 
So,  of  course  he  saw  I  was  holding  my  tongue,  and 
Judie,  who  still  had  hopes,  asked  him  to  the  house." 

"But  Tollabee  had  kicked  him  out!"  cried  Mr. 
Biggamore,  in  his  amazement,  unable  to  hold  his 
tongue.  "  How  did  she  dare?  " 

"  Oh,  I  know.  But  Randolph  was  in  Europe,  and 
she  thought  he  wouldn't  find  out.  Anyway  she'd 
asked  Stanwood  Geikie,  and  he  'd  come,  fast  enough. 
I  nearly  fainted.  I  could  see  him  grin  at  me  out 
of  the  corner  of  his  eyes,  and  all  that  evening  — I 
nearly  died,  too  —  all  the  evening,  I  sat  in  a  corner, 
and  when  anyone  tried  to  talk  to  me  I  just  stared 

447 


CORRIE  WHO? 

at  them.  After  a  while,  they  all  went  to  supper. 
Judie  always  gave  people  a  lot  to  eat.  Well,  they 
went  out  to  supper  —  all  except  us  two.  So  that 
was  my  chance,  I  thought,  and  I  got  down  on  my 
knees  to  him,  and " 

"  On  your  knees !  —  to  that  scoundrel  ?  " 

Miss  Maria  nodded  carelessly.  "  Yes,  and  I 
begged  and  begged  him,  and  he  only  laughed  at 
me.  Then  I  told  him  if  he  would  n't,  I  'd  never  speak 
to  him  again.  Well,  he  would  n't,"  said  Miss  Maria, 
sighing ;  "  and  I  never  have." 

"God  A'mighty!"  interjected  Mr.  Biggamore, 
his  eyes  staring;  and  Corrie,  leaving  her  seat,  went 
and  put  an  arm  around  the  sobbing,  wretched  crea 
ture.  "  Poor,  poor  Aunt  Margaret,"  she  murmured, 
with  a  generous  tact,  rather  unusual  in  the  face  of 
the  circumstances ;  and  Miss  Maria  drove  back  her 
tears,  and  looked  up  at  her  with  eyes  shining  grate 
fully  like  a  dog's. 

"  But,  of  course,  I  could  n't,"  added  Miss  Maria, 
striving  to  make  clear  a  fact  that  was  already  clear ; 
"  no  —  not  after  the  way  he  'd  acted.  And  I  never 
did  —  not  a  single  word  from  that  night  right  up 
to  now." 

However,  that  was  n't  all.  A  few  weeks  passed, 
Miss  Maria,  in  the  meanwhile,  eating  out  her  heart 
with  anguish  at  the  thought  of  the  crippled  child, 
now  farmed  out  among  strangers ;  and  then  one 
night,  she  went  into  the  hall  and  found  Judie  Tol- 
labee  with  her  hat  on,  and  a  bag  in  her  hand.  It  was 
pretty  late  at  night,  too. 

448 


THE  STORY  OF  MARGARET  TOLLABEE 


"  Where  are  you  going?  "  Miss  Maria  had  asked, 
astonished. 

Judie  put  down  her  bag.  "  I  'm  going  out." 
Then  she  paused  and  looked  at  her  sister.  "  Mar 
garet,  he  made  me  promise  I  wouldn't  tell  anyone. 
He  was  particular  about  you,  besides.  But  I  'm 
going  to  tell.  I  can't  keep  the  secret,  I  'm  so  happy. 
I  can't  keep  it  any  longer.  I  'm  going  to  be 
married." 

Miss  Maria  had  fairly  screamed  at  her :  —  "  Tell 
me  his  name!  " 

It  was  as  she  thought.  Judie  had  told,  and  then 
Miss  Maria,  raving  hysterically,  had  thrown  her 
self  on  her  knees.  "  You  can't !  He  's  mine  already ! 
He  's  my  child's  father !  He  's  the  one !  I  tell  you 
he  's  married  to  me !  " 

It  appears  that  Judie  had  not  taken  the  news 
kindly.  She  burst  into  a  terrible  wrath,  raging  at 
her  sister  for  having  deceived  her,  furious  at  having 
been  played  with  and  tricked,  frenzied  at  the  ruining 
of  her  dreams,  since  she  'd  hoped  to  find  in  the  mar 
riage  —  which,  no  doubt,  would  have  turned  out  no 
bit  different  than  her  sister's  —  the  path  to  social 
eminence.  But  after  another  interval  of  high  strikes, 
Judie  Tollabee  had  suddenly  put  a  hand  to  her 
throat,  gagged  once,  and  then  pitched  over  on  her 
face  in  a  fit. 

"That's  what  made  her  lame,"  explained  Miss 
Maria,  apathetically.  "  She  got  a  terrible  limp  from 
it." 

And  in  addition  to  the  limp,  Judie  Tollabee  got  a 
29  449 


CORRIE  WHO? 

warning.  She  was  told  to  go  slow  or  the  next  shock 
might  prove  fatal.  There  must  be  no  more  high  liv 
ing  —  the  sipping,  tasting,  guzzling,  gorging,  and 
what  not,  that,  even  then,  were  the  chief  elements  in 
Judie's  greedy  being.  No  more  rages,  either,  or 
Judie  had  better  look  out.  No'  more  antics  of  any 
kind,  unless  she  wished  to  pay  the  penalty.  So  after 
carefully  writing  a  perfectly  calm  letter,  in  which 
she  told  her  lover  she  was  indisposed  and  could  n't 
oblige  him  with  another  mock  marriage,  and  adding 
afterward,  in  the  same  placid,  unemotional  way,  that 
she  thought  him  a  sharper,  a  cheat  and  a  thief  — 
after  this  perfectly  calm  little  indulgence,  Judie 
settled  down  to  a  life  that  was  about  as  pleasant 
to  her  and  as  full  of  joy  and  comfort  and  delight 
as  a  residence  in  Greenwood  Cemetery.  Thus,  for 
two  years  Judie  eked  out  a  morose  and  sullen  exis 
tence,  and  then  Randolph  Tollabee's  wife  died  and 
the  widower  became  seriously  ill  and  Judie  began 
to  take  a  new  interest  in  affairs. 

"  She  said  things  were  looking  brighter,"  Miss 
Maria  droned,  exactly  expressing  it. 

But  not  for  long,  it  turned  out.  Tollabee  wrote 
that  he  was  coming  home  to  live  with  them,  and  then 
on  top  of  this,  while  Judie  and  her  sister  were  mak 
ing  ready,  there  came  another  letter,  saying  he  had 
changed  his  mind.  In  fact,  Tollabee  washed  his 
hands  clear  of  his  sister ;  someone  had  told  him  how 
Judie,  in  defiance  of  his  orders,  had  asked  Stanwood 
Geikie  to  her  home,  and,  furthermore,  a  whisper  had 
reached  Tollabee  of  her  evident  intention  to  marry 

450 


THE  STORY  OF  MARGARET  TOLLABEE 

the  man.  There  was  not  even  the  slightest  doubt 
he  was  outraged,  and  so  outraged  that  he  took  no 
pains  to  conceal  it. 

"  I  thought  Judie  'd  have  another  fit,"  said  Miss 
Maria,  reminiscently  ;  "  but  she  did  n't.  She  calmed 
down,  after  a  while,  and  then  she  began  to  think. 
Yes  —  and  when  Judie  begins  to  think,  I  begin  to 
get  scared,"  observed  Miss  Maria,  reflectively ;  "  and 
that  was  one  of  the  times,  too,  when  I  had  every 
reason  to  be." 

For  Miss  Maria,  after  the  first  anguish  over  her 
child,  now  deserted  among  strangers,  had  found 
time  to  consider  her  own  position.  Though  inno 
cent,  and  tricked  into  her  plight  by  a  false  marriage, 
she  knew,  nevertheless,  that  if  anything  were  found 
out  about  it,  she  would  be  ruined  to  a  certainty.  So 
when  Judie  began  to  think,  Maria  began  to  get 
frightened. 

"  She  said  she  guessed  she  'd  have  to  tell  him," 
repeated  Miss  Maria,  dully ;  "  and  so  I  got  down 
on  my  knees  again." 

It  was  just  another  appeal;  Miss  Maria  appeared 
to  have  gone  down  on  her  knees  a  great  many  times 
in  her  woe-begone  existence. 

"  You  see,  Judie  thought  it  'd  be  the  only  way 
to  explain  things.  She  was  going  to  tell  Randolph 
what  Stanwood  Geikie  had  done  to  me,  and  then  say 
she  'd  brought  him  to  the  house,  only  to  make  him 
acknowledge  his  marriage.  I  begged  her  to  think 
of  my  poor,  little  crippled  child  and  what  would 
happen  to  it,  if  I  was  turned  into  the  street.  You 

451 


CORRIE  WHO? 

see,  I  didn't  know  what  Randolph  would  do  to  me. 
He  was  supporting  me  —  giving  Judie  and  me  the 
money  we  lived  on ;  and  he  was  so  angry  at  what 
Judie  'd  done,  he  was  threatening  to  cut  it  off.  Then 
I  'd  gone  away,  too,  with  Stanwood  Geikie,  after 
he  'd  been  ordered  out  of  the  house,  and  there  was 
no  telling  what  Randolph  might  do ;  and  the  little 
money  that  Randolph's  father  had  left  my  mother 
was  n't  enough  to  keep  us.  So  I  begged  Judie  to 
think  of  my  baby,  and  Judie  said  there  was  n't  any 
use  to  —  not  when  she  was  so  bothered  about  her 
own  allowance  —  umph!  "  recited  Miss  Maria,  with 
a  troubled  sniff. 

"  But  I  kept  on  begging.  I  told  her,  besides,  that 
he  'd  know  she  was  only  lying  —  I  mean  that  part, 
you  know,  about  getting  Stanwood  Geikie  to  the 
house  and  making  him  marry  me.  I  showed  her  how 
he  must  suspect  already  that  Judie  had  wanted  to 
marry  him  herself;  and  when  I  got  that  far,  Judie 
sat  back  and  began  to  bite  her  lip.  '  Why,  I  had  n't 
thought  of  that,'  she  said.  '  Yes,  I  guess  I  won't 
tell  him  yet,  about  you  and  your  doings.'  So  I  got 
up  from  my  knees,  and  Judie  wrote  a  long  letter, 
begging  Randolph's  forgiveness.  She  said  she  'd 
given  a  big  party,  and  that  Stanwood  Geikie  had 
come  without  an  invitation ;  but  I  don't  think  Judie 
did  it  very  cleverly.  No,  I  guess  not.  Anyway, 
Judie  pretty  nearly  had  another  stroke  when  she 
got  his  answer. 

"  He  was  even  more  angry  than  before.  I  guess 
he  knew  she  was  lying.  He  wrote  that  if  the  party 

452 


THE  STORY  OF  MARGARET  TOLLABEE 

was  to  blame,  Judie  should  give  no  more  parties. 
They  were  only  extravagant,  and  there  was  no  rea 
son  why  he  should  deny  himself  and  his  little  girl 
to  pay  for  Judie's  amusements.  So  our  allowance 
was  reduced,  so  that  we  had  just  enough  to  live  on 
comfortably. 

"  I  did  n't  care.  It  was  enough  to  keep  me  and 
my  baby ;  and  then  I  knew  he  'd  lost  a  lot  of  money 
when  the  bond  concern  failed.  Stanwood  Geikie,  I 
guess,  had  pretty  nearly  cleaned  them  out;  and 
though  Randolph  suspected  him  of  the  theft,  that 
man  had  fixed  up  the  books  so  they  'd  think  his 
brother  was  guilty,  too." 

"  Yes,  the  scoundrel !  "  muttered  Mr  Biggamore. 

Miss  Maria  turned  around  to  Corrie.  "  You  '11 
be  patient,  won't  you?  "  she  asked  in  a  tired  voice. 
"  I  have  to  tell  this  the  way  it  happened,  or  I  won't 
be  able  to  remember  it.  My  head's  just  going 
round  and  round  as  it  is."  She  paused,  and  studied 
the  carpet  a  moment. 

"  Judie  began  to  hate  you  right  there,"  said  Miss 
Maria,  aimlessly.  "  She  said  you  and  your  mother 
had  done  her  out  of  what  was  rightfully  hers  —  Ran 
dolph's  money,  you  know  —  and  she  'd  like  to  throt 
tle  you.  She  nearly  had  another  fit  when  she  read 
out  to  me  what  he  said  about  refusing  to  deny  his 
little  girl  —  you,  Corrie  —  to  pay  for  Judie's  amuse 
ments.  Oh,  she  was  just  hopping.  But,  by  and  by, 
she  turned  around  and  got  furious  at  me,  too,  for 
not  letting  her  write  Randolph  about  me  and  my 
baby.  She  said  she  was  going  to  do  it  now ;  and  so 

453 


CORRIE  WHO? 

I  got  down  on  my  knees  again.  But  it  did  n't  do 
any  good,"  added  Miss  Maria,  and  began  to  fan 
herself  with  her  papers. 

"  I  guess  Judie  was  so  upset  she  really  did  n't 
know  what  she  was  doing.  She  told  everything,  and 
then  gave  her  excuse  that  she  'd  only  had  the  man 
here  to  try  and  make  him  marry  me.  Afterwards, 
she  apologized  for  having  made  such  a  mistake;  it 
was  only  her  kind-heartedness  that  had  kept  her 
from  turning  me  out  of  doors  after  the  way  I  'd 
brought  shame  on  them  all.  I  told  Judie  she  ought 
not  to  write  that,  but  she  said  for  me  to  mind  my  own 
business ;  and  if  I  'd  had  my  baby  with  me  then,  I 
don't  think  we  'd  have  bothered  Judie  any  more  — 
or  anyone  else,"  said  Miss  Maria,  reflecting. 

"  Good  Lord !  —  oh,  come,  come !  "  protested  Mr. 
Biggamore ;  "  you  must  n't  talk  like  that." 

"  No,  it 's  too  late  now,  anyway,"  answered  Miss 
Maria,  feebly ;  "  besides,  I  have  to  take  care  of 
Judie." 

But  what  happened  was  this:  Judie  had  sent  the 
second  letter,  and  Tollabee  had  answered  it,  express 
ing  profound  regret  for  poor  Miss  Maria  and  her 
child,  and  contempt  for  a  sister  who  could  talk  of 
turning  the  wretched  woman  into  the  street. 

"  Anyway,  Randolph  said  that  as  I  was  the  only 
one  who  had  n't  wilfully  lied  to  him,  he  'd  stand  by 
me.  I  was  to  have  enough  to  take  care  of  me  and 
the  baby,  but  Judie  'd  have  to  look  out  for  herself. 
He  said  he  had  you  to  think  of  besides,  Corrie ;  so 
he  cut  off  her  allowance  altogether  —  yes,  he  did !  " 

454 


THE   STORY   OF  MARGARET  TOLLABEE 

affirmed  Miss  Maria,  earnestly ;  "  and  Judie  took  on 
so,  it  nearly  broke  my  heart. 

"  You  see,"  continued  Miss  Maria,  after  a  reflec 
tive  pause,  "  she  thought  she  'd  have  to  find  some 
work  to  support  her  —  a  place  in  a  store,  or  com 
panion  to  a  lady  —  like  she  'd  read  about ;  or  maybe 
she  'd  get  to  be  a  dressmaker.  But  Judie  was  too 
lame  to  stand  up  in  a  shop,  and  she  did  n't  know 
how  to  sew  well  enough  to  become  a  dressmaker,  and 
when  she  thought  of  hiring  out  to  wait  on  a  lady, 
she  'd  almost  go  into  hysterics  at  the  idea  of  being 
snubbed  and  ordered  around  and  made  to  wait  on 
someone.  She  said  she  'd  die  first,  and  I  nearly  cried 
my  eyes  out  over  her,  I  was  so  sorry.  I  used  to  pray 
then  —  it  was  before  I  got  afraid  to  show  myself 
in  a  church  —  and  so  I  prayed  and  prayed  for  Judie, 
and  I  think  God  heard  my  prayers.  Anyway,  Judie 
did  n't  have  to  take  a  place.  Just  as  we  were  getting 
ready  to  move  into  a  boarding-house,  where  Judie 
was  going  to  stay  until  I  found  something  to  do, 
why  I  got  a  telegram  that  Randolph  Tollabee  was 
dying,  and  Judie  nearly  went  out  of  her  mind. 

"  I  guess  she  did ;  anyway,  she  said  my  prayers 
had  been  answered." 


455 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

Relating  how  Randolph  Tollabee  died,  and  how  his  relatives 
promptly  took  charge  of  his  child.  —  What  became  of  the 
missing  Geikie  papers.  —  Judie's  clever  administration 
of  the  estate.  —  Margaret  Tollabee's  child,  and  why  Mrs. 
Pinchin  never  learned  cooking  in  jail.  —  Stanwood  Geikie 
on  the  scene.  —  Blood  money,  and  why  being  found  out  is 
sometimes  the  costliest  sin  of  all.  —  Mrs.  Pinchin's  in 
terest  in  Phil  explained  at  last.  —  Miss  Maria  ends  her 
tale. 

MISS  MARIA  paused  long  enough  to  look  wist 
fully  at  Corrie.  "  You  're  not  dreadfully  an 
gry  at  me,  are  you  ?  I  was  n't  always  cruel  and 
wicked,  and  I  tried  to  be  as  kind  as  I  dared.  You 
won't  be  too  mad  at  me,  will  you  ?  " 

Corrie  shook  her  head  hurriedly.  "  No ;  go  on. 
I  wish  to  hear  about  it."  She  leaned  forward  ab- 
sorbedly,  her  fingers  knitted  together,  her  face  quite 
pale. 

"  All  right,  then  —  so  as  you  're  not  too  angry 
at  me,"  said  Miss  Maria,  picking  up  the  threads  of 
her  story. 

There  had  come  the  message  that  Randolph  Tol 
labee  was  dying;  and  Judie  had  said  she  was  going 
to  him.  Miss  Maria  had  tried  to  dissuade  her,  but 
the  determined  woman  only  declared  further  she 
was  going  to  appeal  to  him  on  his  death-bed.  She 
wished  to  find  out  whether  he  would  n't  leave  her 

456 


MISS  MARIA  ENDS  HER  TALE 

something ;  and  in  a  perfect  fury  of  haste,  she  made 
her  sister  pack  a  bag  and  rush  for  a  train.  Her 
hands,  in  fancy,  were  already  on  the  dying  man's 
money ;  it  is  not  improbable  that,  even  at  this  early 
stage,  she  had  conceived  the  cheat  she  later  put 
into  effect;  and  through  the  night's  journey,  she 
sat  up  in  the  sleeping  car,  her  hat  on  and  chafing 
at  every  delay.  Long  before  they  arrived  at  the 
little  town  in  the  spruce  woods,  she  was  moving  about 
excitedly,  and  urging  Maria  to  get  ready ;  and  when 
they  got  out,  eventually,  the  first  question  she  asked, 
was:  "  He  ain't  dead  yet,  is  he?" 

"  No,  ma'am,  but  they  don't  cal'late  he  '11  live 
the  day  aout,"  answered  the  driver  of  the  waiting 
buckboard. 

Indeed,  Randolph  Tollabee  lay  in  the  final  coma 
when  they  reached  the  little  cottage. 

"  I  plumb  gave  out,  and  began  to  cry,"  sniffed 
Miss  Maria,  beginning  to  shed  a  few  more  tears  in 
remembrance.  "  But  you  could  n't  blame  me.  He  'd 
always  been  kind  to  me,  and  I  just  had  to  cry. 
Judie  didn't  though;  so  I  saw  she  hadn't  for 
given  him.  At  least,  that  was  what  I  thought 
about  it.  She  took  off  her  bonnet,  and  began 
poking  around  just  as  soon  as  she  'd  taken  one 
look  at  him;  and  I  wondered  what  had  got  into 
Judie." 

For  in  a  short  hour  Randolph  Tollabee  was  dead ; 
and  then  Judie  had  gone  to  work  in  earnest.  Miss 
Maria,  weeping  at  the  bedside,  had  heard  her  open 
ing  and  closing  drawers,  and  rummaging  among 

457 


CORRIE  WHO? 

papers ;  and  presently  she  came  in,  crying  gleefully : 
"  I  've  found  them !  " 

"  But  see  here !  "  protested  Mr.  Biggamore,  out 
raged,  "  was  n't  there  anyone  else  in  the  house?  " 

"  Not  then,"  answered  Miss  Maria,  after  a  mo 
ment's  thought ;  "  the  doctor  had  gone  away,  and 
there  were  only  two  servants  —  a  woman  from  the 
village,  who  did  the  cooking  and  housework,  and 
Corrie's  nurse.  The  nurse  was  an  English  girl  that 
he  'd  brought  over  from  the  other  side.  Judie  paid 
her  passage  home,  a  few  days  later,  and  gave  her 
two  months'  wages  beside.  She  thought  Judie  was 
mighty  nice  and  kind." 

"  Humph !  I  have  no  doubt !  "  snorted  Mr.  Big 
gamore.  "  But  what  was  it  that  your  precious  sis 
ter  found?" 

Miss  Maria  looked  at  him  sharply.  "  You 
must  n't  talk  like  that  about  Judie,"  she  retorted 
vexedly ;  "  or  I  won't  tell  you  any  more." 

"  You  were  going  to  tell  me  what  she  'd  found," 
suggested  Mr.  Biggamore,  mildly. 

"  Papers,"  answered  Miss  Maria,  going  on. 
"  Judie  sent  the  house  girl  away  on  an  errand,  and 
then  she  went  out  into  the  garden  where  you,  Cor- 
rie,  and  your  nurse  were,  and  she  sent  the  nurse 
away  on  another  message.  You  were  left  playing 
alone  in  the  garden,  Corrie,  and  Judie  found  the 
papers." 

"  Tollabee's  will,  I  suppose,"  growled  Mr.  Big 
gamore  under  his  breath ;  "  I  imagine  there  was  one." 

"  There  were  two,"  corrected  Miss  Maria,  "  or, 
458 


MISS  MARIA  ENDS  HER  TALE 

at  least,  one  and  the  part  of  another  one.  He  'd 
tried  to  rewrite  the  old  will,  but  hadn't  strength 
enough.  It  left  an  allowance  to  Judie  and  me  — 
the  same  allowance  he  'd  made  us  before  he  took 
Judie's  away.  In  the  second  will,  he  'd  cut  her  out 
altogether;  and  Judie  burned  that  one  before  I 
could  stop  her.  The  other,  she  kept." 

"  Where  is  it  now  ?  "  demanded  Mr.  Biggamore. 

"  He  stole  it  —  Stanwood  Geikie,  you  know  — 
along  with  a  lot  of  other  Tollabee  papers." 

"  But  I  don't  know,"  contradicted  Mr.  Bigga 
more,  excitedly ;  so  Corrie  broke  in,  and  hurriedly 
told  what  had  happened,  the  theft  that  had  resulted 
in  Mrs.  Pinchin's  apoplectic  stroke. 

"  Good  Heavens !  this  has  got  me  beaten !  "  he 
exclaimed,  throwing  up  both  hands.  "  Go  on,  Miss 
Tollabee ;  I  '11  keep  quiet  now." 

So  Judie  had  cried,  "  I  've  found  them !  "  and  af 
ter  showing  the  two  documents  to  Miss  Maria  she 
had  tossed  one  into  the  blazing  grate. 

"  I  got  good  and  scared  then,"  continued  Miss 
Maria.  "  I  was  afraid  she  'd  get  into  trouble,  so 
I  looked  around  while  she  was  outside,  and  I  found 
a  lot  of  other  papers.  I  have  them  here  in  my 
hands." 

Miss  Maria  leaned  over  and  began  untying  the 
tape  around  the  package,  and  after  running  through 
the  papers,  she  looked  up  at  Mr.  Biggamore. 

"  You  remember  the  papers  your  brother-in-law 
came  after?  —  Morton  Geikie,  I  mean.  Judie  was 
scared  almost  to  death.  Well,  she  told  the  truth 

459  s 


CORRIE  WHO? 

when  she  said  she  had  n't  seen  them,  because  she 
had  n't.  I  stole  them,  and  she  never  knew  where 
they  were  until  I  told  her  a  few  days  ago  —  last  Sun 
day,  I  guess  it  was.  I  knew  what  they  were  as  soon 
as  Morton  Geikie  asked  for  them,  and  then  I  took  a 
look.  They  would  have  sent  Stanwood  Geikie  to 
jail,  if  I  had  given  them  up.  You  can  have  them 
now."  .. 

Mr.  Biggamore  fairly  snatched  the  papers  from 
her  hands,  bobbing  his  head  still  more  energetically, 
as  he  opened  first  one  and  then  the  other;  and  Cor- 
rie  gazed  at  Miss  Maria  piteously. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Maria  —  Aunt  Margaret !  How  could 
you  keep  them?  Don't  you  know  what  happened 
to  Phil's  father?" 

"  Yes,  I  know ;  and  I  guess  I  was  crazy.  I 
thought  maybe  I  could  use  them  sometime  to  make 
Stanwood  Geikie  marry  me.  Anyway,  I  did  n't  want 
to  send  him  to  jail,  and  —  and  —  oh,  .well,  I  loved 
him.  I  wanted  him  to  come  back  to  me." 

Mr.  Biggamore  stared  at  her  open-mouthed  over 
the  top  of  his  glasses.  "  You  mean  to  say  that 
you  'd  have  married  that  blackguard,  after  all?  " 

"  Oh,  yes  —  anyhow  up  till  this  morning,  when 
I  found  out  he  'd  tried  to  play  his  tricks  on  Corrie. 
I  used  to  remember  him  as  he  was  when  I  first  knew 
him  —  and  I  carried  his  picture,  too  —  j  ust  as  he 
was,  you  know,  when  I  'd  first  met  him,  and  he  was 
trying  to  be  nice  and  sweet  and  gentlemanly.  But 
when  I  heard  about  his  trying  to  marry  Corrie  here 
for  her  fortune  —  he  'd  seen  the  game  was  up,  I  sup- 

460 


MISS  MARIA  ENDS  HER  TALE 

pose,  and  would  really  have  married  you  for  your 
money  and  to  keep  out  of  trouble.  Anyway,  when 
I  heard  about  it,  something  went  snap!  in  my  heart, 
and  I  only  hated  him.  But  I  did  love  him  for  years, 
all  the  same." 

"  Live  and  learn !  "  muttered  Mr.  Biggamore,  sen- 
tentiously,  and  bit  his  lip. 

So  Judie  had  made  her  plans.  She  decided  to  take 
Corrie  home  to  New  York  with  her ;  for  it  appeared 
then  to  have  been  her  intention  to  probate  the  un- 
destroyed  will,  and,  as  executrix,  to  keep  control 
of  the  money.  The  document,  written  before  Tol- 
labee  had  discerned  his  step-sister's  real  character, 
named  her  and  Miss  Maria  as  guardians  in  event 
of  his  death ;  and  he  had  tried  too  late  to  write 
another.  Thus,  on  the  face  of  it,  the  field  was  clear ; 
and  after  disposing  of  Morton  Geikie,  who  had  come 
for  his  papers,  and  seeing  Randolph  Tollabee  into 
his  grave,  Judie,  her  sister,  and  Corrie  went  back 
to  the  city,  and  there  Judie  wasted  no  time. 

"  She  did  n't  tell  me  a  word  what  she  meant  to  do," 
said  Miss  Maria,  drearily.  "  The  day  after  we  came 
home,  she  went  away  early  in  the  morning,  and  when 
she  walked  in  at  night,  she  had  my  baby  in  her  arms. 
She  'd  been  all  the  way  out  there  on  Long  Island  to 
get  it.  I  nearly  died  of  joy,  and  I  threw  my  arms 
around  her,  and  told  her  how  good  she  was  to  me. 
But  Judie  told  me  to  shut  up ;  she  was  n't  going 
to  let  me  live  with  my  little  girl,  so  that  everyone 
would  find  out  about  it.  She  only  meant  to  have 
it  nearer  home.  Then,  the  next  day,  she  went  out 

461 


CORRIE  WHO? 

again  early,  and  I  did  n't  see  her  till  night.  But  I 
did  n't  think  about  that.  I  had  my  baby,  and  I 
tried  all  day  to  make  it  smile,  and  I  could  n't,  and 
then  part  of  the  day  I  tried  to  get  its  arms  and  legs 
straight,  and  I  could  n't  do  that,  either.  So  when 
Judie  came  in,  I  was  crying.  '  Stop  your  bawling,' 
she  said  to  me ;  '  we  're  going  to  move.' ' 

And  move  they  did;  for  Judie's  scheme  was 
sprouting  out.  They  moved,  and  the  crippled  child 
was  left  behind  with  an  attendant,  who  was  told 
that  it  was  Randolph  Tollabee's  child.  Miss  Maria 
had  gone  down  on  her  knees  again  on  hearing  this 
deceit,  but  to  no  avail.  "  I  '11  tell  on  you,"  she  had 
threatened  finally,  and  Judie  had  looked  at  her  with 
a  flaming  face. 

"  Do  it,  if  you  dare ! "  she  threatened  in  turn. 
"  That  money  —  or  a  part  of  it,  anyway,  belongs 
to  me.  I  'm  not  going  to  let  any  brat  stand  in  my 
way.  I  've  offered  the  will  for  probate,  and  if  you 
say  anything  about  the  one  I  burned,  everyone  shall 
know  about  that  child  of  yours  and  your  shame. 
Now  go  ahead  and  tell,  if  you  like." 

Miss  Maria  took  off  her  spectacles,  which  had 
grown  blurred  during  the  recital,  and  blinked  while 
she  wiped  them  with  the  edge  of  her  skirt.  "  I  did  n't 
go  down  on  my  knees  any  more,"  she  murmured; 
"  I  just  kept  on  saying  '  I  '11  tell!  I  '11  tell!  I  '11 
tell ! '  " 

"  I  'm  going  to  keep  what 's  my  own,"  Judie  had 
responded ;  "  anyhow,  I  'm  going  to  keep  it  till  I 
die.  I  don't  care  what  happens  to  it  then.  But 

462 


MISS  MAKIA  ENDS  HER  TALE 

if  you  tell  on  me  now,  I  '11  go  to  jail.  They  '11  ar 
rest  me  for  burning  up  the  other  will,  and  then 
where  '11  you  be?  " 

"  It 's   stealing ! "   Miss   Maria  had  cried. 

"  No,  it  ain't,"  her  sister  had  answered,  with  a 
ready  retort ;  "  the  money  's  rightfully  mine.  Ran 
dolph  Tollabee  promised  to  leave  it  to  me,  and  if 
it  had  n't  been  for  that  French  teacher,  and  now  this 
brat,  I  'd  have  had  it.  Besides,  what  can  this  child 
do  with  all  that  much  money,  anyway?  " 

But  Miss  Maria  had  still  protested  it  was  steal 
ing.  If  Judie  was  not  meaning  to  steal  all  of  it, 
rather  than  a  part  only,  why  had  she  substituted 
one  child  for  another.  Precisely!  And  Judie  had 
a  ready  answer  for  that,  too.  Corrie  might  not 
die,  and  if  she  were  allowed  to  remain  known  as  the 
heir,  there  would  be  a  lot  of  trouble  when  the  time 
came  to  turn  over  her  fortune  to  her. 

Then  Miss  Maria  had  suddenly  grown  cold.  "  But 
my  baby  —  my  little  girl  whom  you  've  put  in  her 
place !  "  she  had  wept.  "  She  can't  live  very  long. 
What  will  you  do  with  all  the  money  when  she  dies  ?  " 

Precisely !  —  and  Judie's  eyes  had  glittered.  Ju 
die  had  already  made  plans  for  what  she  'd  do  with 
it. 

"  Now  let 's  have  an  end  to  this  foolishness,"  she 
had  growled  roughly.  "  Here  's  your  choice :  We  '11 
move  where  we  're  not  known,  and  your  child  '11  re 
main  here.  She  '11  be  known  as  Dorothy  Tollabee, 
and  I  '11  be  known  as  Mrs.  Pinchin.  That 's  so  we  '11 
be  safe,  if  anyone  recognizes  us.  If  they  do,  and 

463 


CORRIE  WHO? 

things  come  to  the  worst,  I  '11  say  Corrie  's  my  child, 
and  that  Stanwood  Geikie  's  her  father.  That  ought 
to  satisfy  you  —  yes,  after  the  way  you  've  howled 
around  about  your  virtue,  Miss  Margaret  Maria 
Tollabee.  We  '11  keep  your  child  here  in  the  Tenth 
Street  house,  and  we  '11  move  over  to  Bend  Street, 
where  we  're  not  known,  and  where  there  's  a  little 
house  belonging  to  the  estate.  We  can  keep  quiet, 
for  a  while,  then  I  'm  going  to  move  uptown  where 
I  can  begin  all  over  again.  There 's  no  one  but 
trash  anyway,  down  here,  that  comes  to  my  parties, 
and  I  intend  to  have  a  good  time.  Is  it  a  go?  " 

"  It 's  stealing !  "  wailed  Miss  Maria,  still  obsessed 
by  conscience.  "  I  won't  do  it." 

"  All  right  then,"  retorted  Judie,  grimly ;  *'  I 
suppose  I  '11  have  to  go  to  jail.  I  ?ve  taken  oath 
at  the  Surrogate's  office,  and  now  I  'm  in  for  it. 
You  '11  be  glad  when  you  see  me  in  prison  weaving 
baskets  and  pounding  oakum  and  washing  dishes 
for  the  convicts  —  cooking  for  them,  too,  I 
should  n't  wonder.  Do  you  want  me  to  learn  cook 
ing  in  jail?  " 

So  rather  than  see  her  sister  cooking  for  the  con 
victs,  Miss  Maria  had  given  in.  She  said  she  'd 
submit,  but  in  the  same  breath,  she  swore  to  Judie 
that  she  'd  never  accept  a  cent  of  the  ill-gotten 
booty,  and  that  when  Corrie  came  of  age,  she  would 
tell. 

"  Do  as  you  please  about  that,"  answered  Judie, 
now  newly  christened  as  Mrs.  Pinchin.  "  By  the 
time  she  comes  of  age,  •  I  '11  have  had  my  fun,  and 

464 


MISS  MARIA  ENDS  HER  TALE 

can  die,  perhaps.  Or  maybe  I  won't  mind  going 
to  jail  after  I  've  enjoyed  myself." 

So  the  farce  had  been  carried  out:  the  servants 
were  dismissed,  and  new  ones  engaged;  the  new 
house  was  opened,  and  the  old  one  left  as  it  was, 
tenanted  only  by  that  substituted  child  and  its  at 
tendants.  In  the  neighborhood,  the  Tollabees  were 
said  to  have  gone  into  the  country;  and  when  the 
first  year  passed  by  safely,  Mrs.  Pinchin  chuckled. 
She  chuckled  still  more  at  the  second;  and  half 
way  through  the  third  year  she  became  positively 
hilarious. 

"  Then  the  doorbell  rang  one  day,"  said  Miss 
Maria,  simply ;  "  and  when  I  went  down  into  the 
parlor,  there  was  Stanwood  Geikie.  He  threw  back 
his  head  when  he  saw  me,  and  laughed  and  laughed, 
and  I  gave  him  one  look,  and  then  went  upstairs 
and  told  Judie." 

For  it  had  been  as  Miss  Maria  had  suspected, 
Stanwood  Geikie  had  smelled  out  the  fraud,  and  had 
come  to  demand  his  share. 

An  hour  later,  Judie  lurched  back  up  the  stairs, 
her  face  like  a  death  mask.  She  was  wheezing  and 
gasping  and  her  form  trembled  as  if  with  a  palsy. 
"  I  've  fixed  him,"  she  guttered,  and  fought  for 
breath.  "He  knows  all  about  it  —  the  fiend!  — 
but  I  've  fixed  him.  He 's  to  have  a  third  of  my 
income  regularly,  or  he  '11  go  and  tell.  I  've  prom 
ised  him." 

"  Every  year,  since  then,"  said  Miss  Maria,  with 
out  emotion,  "  he  's  sucked  the  blood  money  out  of 
30  465 


CORRIE  WHO? 

us.  Once  or  twice,  in  years  when  he  'd  lost  in  Wall 
Street,  he  made  Judie  give  him  more  than  half.  It 
got  so,  Mr.  Biggamore,  that  I  begged  her  to  run 
away  with  me  and  my  baby,  and  then  write  to  you 
what  had  happened.  But  Judie  would  n't.  She  said 
she  could  n't  give  up  her  comforts.  I  think  she  'd 
have  rather  died." 

But  after  this  shock  came  a  worse  one.  The  Gei- 
kies  and  Mr.  Biggamore  moved  into  the  house  be 
hind  the  little  gentleman's  present  residence.  "  One 
of  our  servants  told  me,  Mr.  Biggamore,"  said  Miss 
Maria,  coming  to  this.  "  The  servant  told  me  who 
was  moving  in,  and  I  nearly  fainted.  I  'd  just  been 
to  see  my  little  girl,  so  I  rushed  upstairs  to  tell 
Judie.  But  Judie  'd  found  out  already,  and  was 
raging.  She  knew  your  brother-in-law  had  recog 
nized  us,  because  she  heard  your  nephew  telling  Cor- 
rie.  For  weeks  afterward,  we  wondered  why  nothing 
was  done  about  it.  Why !  every  time  the  doorbell 
rang,  Judie  and  I  just  died  of  fright!  But  nothing 
happened,  and  we  never  knew  why." 

"  I  can  explain  that,"  said  Mr.  Biggamore,  so 
berly  ;  "  my  brother  never  told  anyone  but  the  boy. 
He  and  Phil  were  alone  in  the  house;  my  sister  and 
I  had  n't  finished  packing  up  at  our  old  home.  That 
same  night  you  ran  away  from  Bend  Street,  Morton 
Geikie  killed  himself.  He  could  n't  stand  the  shame 
any  longer  of  what  his  brother's  rascality  had  cost 
him." 

But  after  the  women  and  the  child  had  fled  to 
another  part  of  the  city,  Stanwood  Geikie  had  taken 

466 


MISS  MARIA  ENDS  HER  TALE 

the  abandoned  house.  He  insisted  on  Mrs.  Pinchin 
giving  it  to  him,  but  would  offer  no  explanation 
other  than  that  he  wished  it.  The  reason  they 
learned  later;  he  had  heard  from  Mrs.  Pinchin  of 
the  probable  existence  of  those  papers  Morton  Gei- 
kie  had  demanded,  and  the  thought  of  them  filled 
his  soul  with  uneasiness.  He  decided  that  Mr.  Big- 
gamore  and  Mrs.  Geikie  were  holding  them  back 
till  they  got  a  good  chance  to  strike;  or  they  were 
waiting  until  he  had  enough  money  to  make  it  worth 
while  to  produce  them.  At  the  time,  the  profits 
from  his  blackmail  were  large;  he  had  increased  it 
by  speculation,  and  with  brighter  fortune  dawning, 
Stanwood  Geikie  hoped  to  replace  himself  in  the 
world.  But  with  the  damning  evidence  of  those  pa 
pers  still  in  existence,  there  was  no  telling  when  the 
sword  might  fall;  and  Stanwood  Geikie  lived  many 
uneasy  moments  at  the  thought  of  what  might 
happen. 

"  That 's  what  smashed  us  up,"  said  Miss  Maria, 
frankly.  "  If  it  had  n't  been  for  his  trying  to  work 
on  your  nephew,  Mr.  Biggamore,  we  'd  never  have 
been  found  out." 

Mr.  Biggamore  looked  at  her  doubtfully.  "  How 
do  you  mean,  madam?  I  don't  think  I  follow 
you." 

"Why,"  explained  Miss  Maria,  "he  tried  to 
get  at  Phil.  He  told  Judie  a  long  while  after,  that 
he  'd  tried  to  worm  himself  into  the  boy's  good  graces 
and  had  failed.  I  guess  he  offered  him  money  —  yes, 
I  thought  so.  His  idea  was  to  corrupt  Phil  with 

467 


CORRIE  WHO? 

money  and  presents,  so  that  he  'd  steal  the  papers 
and  bring  them  to  him." 

"  Ah,  yes !  I  understand !  the  scoundrel !  "  mut 
tered  Mr.  Biggamore;  and  Corrie,  too,  remembered 
the  episode  of  the  dollar  that  had  been  hurled  in 
Uncle  Stanwood's  face. 

"  After  that,  we  never  had  a  moment's  peace,"  said 
Miss  Maria.  "  One  thing  after  another  happened. 
Corrie  found  the  Tollabee  books  in  the  garret. 
Then  she  began  to  insist  on  being  told  who  she  was ; 
and  the  more  Judie  told  stories,  the  worse  it  got. 
I  was  getting  down  on  my  knees  regularly  now," 
Miss  Maria  went  on,  listlessly ;  "  but  Judie  would  n't 
give  up  her  comforts.  She  kept  at  it,  and  even  then 
she  might  have  fooled  you,  Corrie,  if  Stanwood  Geikie 
had  n't  made  Judie  herself  get  after  Phil." 

"  What 's  that  ? "  demanded  Mr.  Biggamore, 
again. 

Miss  Maria  looked  at  him  blankly,  and  then 
seemed  to  understand. 

"  Oh !  you  don't  know  about  it  ?  Why,  he  had 
a  scheme  for  Judie  to  hire  Phil  as  an  architect,  and 
when  she  got  him  interested,  she  was  to  give  him 
an  office  with  a  safe  in  it.  He  'd  be  expected  to  keep 
his  valuable  papers  in  it,  and  Stanwood  Geikie  kind 
of  hoped  the  ones  he  wanted  would  be  among  them. 
Then  some  night  he  would  go  get  them." 

"  Oho !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Biggamore,  remembering 
Mrs.  Pinchin's  offer  to  Phil  of  an  office  with  a  safe 
in  it.  "  That  makes  it  all  clear  now.  Well  go  on, 
if  you  please." 

4G3 


MISS  MARIA  ENDS  HER  TALE 

Judie,  as  Miss  Maria  clearly  showed,  had  n't  taken 
kindly  to  the  idea.  She  had  protested  from  the  start 
that  it  was  sheer  idiocy.  It  was  worse  than  that, 
when  he  persisted  coming  to  her  house  to  see  how 
matters  were  getting  along. 

"  That  first  Sunday  night  a  week  ago,  she  nearly 
had  a  stroke,  she  was  so  frightened.  She  found  out 
you  were  trying  to  locate  the  house  where  we  'd  lived, 
Corrie.  That  young  man  let  it  out  unconsciously. 
So  we  knew  you  'd  been  stirred  up,  and  Judie 
thought  he  'd  told  you." 

It  came  out  further,  that  this  had  been  a  memor 
able  evening  in  more  than  one  respect;  a  crucial 
turning  point  in  the  fortunes  of  all  concerned.  For 
in  despite  the  fact  that  Miss  Maria  had  learned  her 
child  was  in  critical  health,  Mrs.  Pinchin  had  not 
only  gone  on  with  her  party,  but  had  insisted  on 
Miss  Maria's  presence.  There  was  only  one  expla 
nation  of  it:  Mrs.  Pinchin  even  then  was  frightened, 
too  afraid  to  be  left  alone. 

"  Why !  she  was  so  frightened  she  cried,"  volun 
teered  Miss  Maria ;  "  and  the  next  morning  she  made 
me  stay  and  watch  you.  She  went  down  to  see  how 
my  baby  was  getting  on," —  Miss  Maria's  baby  must 
have  been  nearly  twenty,  then  — "  and  afterwards 
she  walked  all  the  way  to  Stanwood  Geikie's  to  tell 
him  she  was  n't  going  to  take  the  risk  for  him,  or 
anyone  else,  no  matter  what  he  did  to  her.  It  was 
the  first  time  she  'd  ever  been  there  since  we  ran 
away  from  that  house,  and  she  was  frightened  out 
of  her  senses." 

469 


CORRIE  WHO? 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  Corrie,  quietly ;  "  I  saw 
her." 

Miss  Maria  stared  vaguely,  a  moment,  but  made 
no  comment.  "  There  ain't  but  a  little  more  now," 
she  went  on.  "  He  made  her  keep  at  it ;  your  adver 
tisement  appeared,  Mr.  Biggamore ;  and  then  I  knew 
it  was  all  over.  But  Judie  still  would  n't  give  in. 
She  said  she  was  afraid  to,  and  the  way  she  told 
stories  to  poor  Corrie  here  just  made  me  heartsick. 
Then  Stanwood  Geikie  came,  and  Judie  said  to  him: 
*  We 're  all  going  to  jail,  I  guess.'  She  told  me 
afterward  he  grinned  at  her,  and  said  he  did  n't 
know  what  she  meant.  '  You  'ZZ  go  to  jail,  perhaps, 
Judie,  but  they  can't  do  anything  to  me?  But  I 
guess  he  was  pretty  uneasy  just  the  same,  because 
the  morning  after  I  'd  seen  you,  Mr.  Biggamore, 
he  came  up  here  and  forced  his  way  into  Judie's 
room.  But  when  Judie  said  again,  we  were  all  going 
to  jail,  he  still  laughed,  and  said  it  was  none  of  his 
concern  where  she  went.  She  could  go  to  Jericho, 
if  she  chose,  only  he  thought  she  was  making  a 
mountain  out  of  a  molehill.  He  was  always  saying 
that." 

"  Yes ;  and  I  heard  him  say  it,"  said  Corrie, 
remembering. 

"  Hmph !  "  sniffed  Miss  Maria,  savagely ;  "  but 
he'd  forgotten  all  about  me!  If  there  was  any  jail 
opening  for  us,  I  made  up  my  mind  he  'd  get  a  look 
into  it,  too.  So  on  Sunday  morning  —  last  Sunday, 
you  know  —  I  told  Judie  about  the  papers  I  'd 
stolen  years  ago.  They  were  the  ones  I 've  just 

470 


MISS  MARIA  ENDS  HER  TALE 

given  you,  Mr.  Biggamore.  '  Oh,  my  God ! ' 
screamed  Judie,  clutching  me  by  the  arm :  *  and 
you  've  had  them  all  this  time,  and  let  that  man 
bleed  me  to  the  last  drop  of  blood?  Give  them  to 
me ! '  But  I  would  n't.  I  said  I  had  them,  and  I 
was  going  to  keep  them  till  the  time  came.  '  But 
you've  got  them  —  you're  sure?'  asked  Judie,  and 
it 's  a  wonder  she  did  n't  get  her  stroke  then.  '  If 
you  've  got  them,  I  can  get  rid  of  that  cheat  and 
blackmailer ! ' : 

So  armed  with  this  weapon,  Mrs.  Pinchin  had 
hurried  away  from  the  house  in  Tenth  Street,  leav 
ing  Miss  Maria  to  watch  beside  her  dying  daughter. 
That  night  she  had  served  warning  on  Stanwood 
Geikie  that  she  would  submit  to  his  brutality  no 
more;  and  had  she  not  feared  he  would  inform  on 
her,  she  was  enraged  enough  to  have  refused  further 
payments  of  blackmail. 

"  I  just  knew,  though,"  observed  Miss  Maria, 
thoughtfully ;  "  that  he  'd  do  what  he  did  —  steal 
our  papers,  I  mean.  I  knew  he  was  after  the  ones 
I  've  given  to  you,  Mr.  Biggamore ;  but  Judie  was 
afraid  he  'd  try  to  get  his  hands  on  the  Tollabee 
papers.  But  he  was  after  the  ones  you  have  now, 
Mr.  Biggamore,  when  he  broke  into  Judie's  room; 
and  I  guess  he  just  took  the  others  because  they 
were  handy." 

"  Well,  a  lot  of  good  they  '11  do  him  now,"  snapped 
Mr.  Biggamore ;  "  and  if  he  ever  shows  his  face  in 
New  York  again,  I  '11  know  how  to  take  care  of  him. 
But  of  course  he  won't  hang  around  now,"  added 

471 


CORRIE  WHO? 

the  little  gentleman,  regretfully ;  "  not  when  he 
knows  the  cat 's  out  of  the  bag." 

"  No ;  I  guess  he  '11  skip,"  observed  Miss  Maria, 
solemnly.  "  Well,  as  I  was  saying,  Stanwood  Gei- 
kie  broke  into  Judie's  room,  and  then  Judie  came 
home  and  had  her  shock.  Now  she  's  all  paralyzed, 
and  —  and " 

Miss  Maria  drew  in  another  long  breath  through 
her  nose,  and  slowly  took  off  her  spectacles.  She 
looked  up  at  the  ceiling  while  she  wiped  them  on  the 
fold  of  her  dress,  and  then  she  sniffed  again. 

"Well,  that's  all,"  she  said,  and  with  a  little 
gagging  sob,  buried  her  face  in  her  hands. 


472 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

And  last.  —  In  which  Mrs.  Pinchin  appeals.  —  Carrie's  stolen 
childhood.  —  Phil  Geikie  declines  to  see  Miss  Dorothy 
Tollabee.  —  Mr.  Biggamore's  embarrassment  at  the  tableau 
in  the  drawing-room.  —  How  Corrie  was  willing  at  last.  — 
The  foreword  before  FINIS.  —  Miss  Maria  finds  herself 
to  be  a  wife.  —  Stanwood  GeiJne's  confession  and  flight.  — 
The  scene  in  the  street  car.  —  Corrie 's  tender-hearted 
sympathy.  —  FINIS. 

SO  now  the  story  was  told,  the  grotesque  and 
shameful  farce  laid  bare;  and  when  Miss  Maria 
came  to  the  end  of  her  tale,  and  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands,  Corrie  and  Mr.  Biggamore  sat  look 
ing  at  her  silently.  In  the  h'ttle  gentleman's  face  was 
a  curious  expression ;  he  sucked  in  his  lip  dubiously, 
and  fell  to  tugging  energetically  at  his  forelock. 

"  Madam,"  he  said  reflectively,  "  I  believe  you  've 
been  punished  enough  already,  —  well,  upon  my  soul, 
I  believe  I  'm  sorry  for  you !  " 

Miss  Maria  recovered  herself  far  enough  to  look 
up  at  him  wryly.  "  I  'm  not  asking  your  pity,"  she 
retorted ;  "  you  can  keep  it  till  it 's  wanted." 

But  this  gleam  of  spirit  was  only  a  flying  spark ; 
it  burned  itself  away  quickly ;  and  Miss  Maria  turned 
toward  the  girl.  "  What  are  you  going  to  do  to  us, 
Corrie  ?  —  that 's  really  your  name,  too.  Your  father 
called  you  Dorrie,  for  Dorothy,  and  you  could  n't  get 
it  any  nearer  than  Corrie.  I  would  n't  let  Judie 

473 


CORRIE  WHO? 

change  it  —  I  thought  it  'd  be  a  shame."  Miss 
Maria  wiped  her  eyes  again.  "  What  are  you  go 
ing  to  do  to  us,  Corrie?  I  know  you  've  promised, 
but " 

Corrie  sadly  shook  her  head.  "  Nothing,  Miss 
Maria.  I  would  have  done  nothing,  even  if  I  had  n't 
given  my  promise." 

"  And  you  won't  send  Judie  to  prison?  There!  I 
told  Judie  you  'd  be  kind  and  soft-hearted  like  that, 
when  you  knew.  Now  you  're  going  to  be  nice  and 
sweet  to  Judie,  won't  you  ?  Just  think  how  she  's 
suffered." 

"  Oh,  good  Lord !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Biggamore, 
and  flounced  across  the  room. 

Miss  Maria,  who  was  watching  Corrie  intently, 
gave  no  heed  to  the  little  gentleman's  petulance. 
"  You  will  be  nice  and  kind,  won't  you,  Corrie?  " 

But  Corrie  evaded  the  question.  "  Does  Mrs.  Pin- 
chin  know  you  've  told  me  ?  "  she  asked. 

Miss  Maria  sighed  regretfully.  "  I  think  she  sus 
pects.  That 's  why  I  wanted  an  hour  to  make  up  my 
mind.  I  told  Judie  I  guessed  we  'd  better  give  in, 
and  that  anyway  she  could  n't  give  any  more  parties 
or  wear  fine  things  or  eat  such  a  lot  of  good  things 
any  more.  She  's  got  to  take  care  of  herself ;  and 
besides,  how 'd  she  look  walking  around  in  jail  with 
a  cane  ?  '  Why,  you  'd  look  like  a  perfect  fool, 
Judie ! '  I  told  her ;  and  I  should  n't  wonder  but  she 
thought  so,  too." 

"  I  'd  like  to  see  her,"  said  Corrie,  suddenly. 
"  Won't  you  please  go  tell  her  I  'm  coming?  " 

474 


THE  TABLEAU  IN  THE  DRAWING-ROOM 

Miss  Maria  got  up  slowly.  "  You  won't  be  cross  ?  " 
she  pleaded;  and  Corrie  shaking  her  head,  Miss 
Maria  glided  away  —  dowdy,  stoop-shouldered,  more 
self-debased  than  ever;  yet,  with  all  that,  almost 
noble  in  her  devotion  to  the  greedy,  selfish  woman 
who  had  wretchedly  debauched  such  love.  Presently 
Miss  Maria  returned  and  crooked  her  finger  at  Cor 
rie  ;  and  the  girl  went  up  the  stairs  to  that  darkened 
room  above. 

The  twisted,  masklike  face  lay  among  the  pillows, 
its  closed  eyes  turned  upward  to  the  ceiling.  At  the 
noise  of  the  door  closing,  Mrs.  Pinchin  breathed 
deeply,  and  a  movement  ran  through  her  frame,  out 
lined  largely  beneath  the  coverings,  as  if  she  strove 
to  huddle  down  in  the  four-poster.  Then  her  one  eye 
opened  furtively,  and,  as  quickly,  shut  itself;  Mrs. 
Pinchin  breathed  again  deeply ;  and  Corrie,  standing 
by  the  bed,  silently  looked  at  her. 

Mrs.  Pinchin  spoke: 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  to  me?  "  Miss  Maria 
had  said  us.  Whether  Mrs.  Pinchin  thought  herself 
the  one  conspirator,  or  whether  she  had  no  thought 
of  others,  who  can  say?  "Are  you  going  to  get 
square?  "  she  demanded  grimly,  perhaps  defiantly. 
"  I  have  n't  stolen  anything." 

Corrie  made  no  reply. 

"  No,  I  have  n't,"  reasserted  Mrs.  Pinchin. 
"  You  've  got  more  money  now  than  there  ever  was." 
Corrie  still  was  silent.  "  I  have  n't  stolen  anything 
from  you,  Corrie.  No  —  no,  I  have  n't."  There  she 
caught  at  her  breath ;  a  little  whimper  came  breaking 

475 


CORRIE  WHO? 

from  her  lips,  and  a  tear,  pendent  on  one  thick  lid, 
rolled  across  her  leathery  face.  But  it  was  a  tear  of 
self-pity  rather  than  for  any  regret  of  what  she 
had  done  to  this  girl.  "  I  suppose  I  'm  going  to  be 
turned  out,  and  lose  all  I  got.  But  I  thought  —  I 
thought,"  she  whimpered,  her  voice  breaking,  "  I 
thought  maybe  you  'd  be  a  little  kind  to  me,  now  that 
I  made  Maria  tell  you.  Yes,  I  just  had  to  make  her 
do  it.  Are  n't  you  going  to  forgive  me  ?  I  have  n't 
really  stolen  anything." 

"  Forgive  you  ?  No,  I  can  never  forgive  you,  Mrs. 
Pinchin." 

The  figure  in  the  bed  tried  forcefully  to  raise  it 
self.  Then,  after  the  futile  effort,  Mrs.  Pinchin  lay 
back  among  the  pillows,  and  began  to  mutter  thickly. 
"  I  did  n't  steal  anything,  I  tell  you.  No,  I  did  n't. 
I  did  n't  steal  a  thing.  You  've  got  more  than  there 
ever  was,  I  say." 

Corrie  threw  out  both  her  hands  in  a  gesture  of 
appealing  wistful  trouble.  "  Oh,  Mrs.  Pinchin  !  "  she 
cried  brokenly,  "  how  can  I  forgive  you  when  you  've 
stolen  away  my  childhood." 

"  Unh !  "  grunted  the  figure  in  the  bed,  and  so 
Corrie  left  her. 

Mr.  Biggamore,  who,  during  this  interval,  had  been 
peering  through  the  lace  draperies  of  the  drawing- 
room  window,  let  fall  an  abrupt  exclamation.  "  Con 
found  him !  "  he  cried  wrathfully.  "  I  'd  like  to 
know  now  what  the  young  idiot 's  up  to.  Hey!  " 
beckoning  furiously  through  the  glass,  and  then  — 

476 


THE  TABLEAU  IN  THE  DRAWING-ROOM 

"  Oh,  my  dear  young  girl !  I  beg  your  pardon.  Ex 
cuse  me,  just  a  moment." 

Mr.  Biggamore  hurried  to  the  front  door,  and  at 
the  sight  of  him,  Phil,  who  had  stopped  on  the  side 
walk  opposite  to  moon  up  at  the  windows,  scowled 
frightfully,  and  walked  on.  "  Hey !  you  Phil 
there !  "  bawled  the  little  gentleman ;  and  Phil  hav 
ing  turned,  Mr.  Biggamore  violently  signaled  him 
to  draw  near. 

"  What  do  you  want  of  me? "  Phil  demanded 
darkly. 

"  Nothing  —  except  that  you  won't  make  an  ass 
of  yourself,"  retorted  Mr.  Biggamore.  Then  from 
his  height  on  the  front  steps,  he  began  to  nod  and 
grin  and  wink  and  to  jerk  his  thumb  over  his 
shoulder  in  the  most  expressive,  if  inelegant  way. 

And  after  the  little  gentleman  had  prolonged 
this  pantomime  to  unreasonable  lengths,  it  seemed 
to  dawn  on  Phil  that  he  was  requested  to  step 
inside. 

"  Yes,  come  on  in ! "  chirped  Mr.  Biggamore. 
"  She  says  she  '11  see  you  again." 

Phil,  with  a  lowering  brow,  came  up  the  steps. 
"  Look  here,  Uncle  Phil,"  he  growled  savagely,  "  I 
don't  know  what  you  've  told  Corrie,  but  I  wish  you 
to  know  that  it  won't  do  any  good.  You  're  wasting 
your  breath  trying  to  make  her  give  me  up.  She 
won't,  and  I'll  tell  you  why:  — Because  I  won't  let 
her!" 

"Oh,  Great  Scott!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Biggamore. 

"Why oh,  now!"  He  darted  to  the  drawing- 

477 


CORRIE  WHO? 

room  door.  "  I  'm  choking  —  yes,  I  do  believe  — 
Corrie,  where  can  I  get  a  glass  of  water?  Oh,  to  be 
sure.  Oh,  yes,  in  the  dining  room,  of  course !  "  And 
dashing  away,  Mr.  Biggamore  effaced  himself  tact 
fully,  only  stopping  at  the  end  of  the  hall  to  cry: 

"  You  go  in  there,  Phil.  Miss  Dorothy  Tollabee 
wishes  to  see  you !  " 

Phil,  standing  in  the  vestibule,  glared  after  him. 
"  I  wish  to  see  Corrie,"  he  growled ;  "  I  don't  care 
to  see  that  other  girl." 

"Phil  — oh,  Phil!" 

Then  he  had  her  in  his  arms,  her  cheek  against 
his,  and  then 

But  never  mind  what  then.  They  were  still  stand 
ing  there  when  Mr.  Biggamore  returned  from  the 
dining  room.  "  Oh,  excuse  me !  "  murmured  the  little 
gentleman,  stealing  away ;  but  they  had  not  heard 
or  seen  him.  "  Why !  "  muttered  Mr.  Biggamore  to 
himself,  and  blushed  rosily  as  he  said  it ;  "I  be 
lieve  —  now  honestly  I  do  —  I  believe  he  was  kissing 
her,  and  she  was  letting  him." 

But  the  little  gentleman  was  wrong  in  his  painful 
surmise. 

"  Phil  —  dear,  dear  boy ;  you  need  n't  look 
around  for  that  other  girl  you  did  n't  wish  to  see. 
There  's  only  one  Dorothy  Tollabee  here,  and  I  am 
she,  Phil.  I  am  Dorothy  Tollabee.  Don't  you  under 
stand  ?  —  and'  I  love  you  so  —  love  you  — love  you, 
Phil  —  and  it 's  all  right  now.  Have  n't  you  any 
thing  to  say  to  me,  Phil,  when  I  tell  you  I  love 
you?" 

478 


THE  TABLEAU  IN  THE  DRAWING-ROOM 

She  took  his  dazed  face  between  her  hands,  and 
looked  up  at  him.  "  Don't  you  dare,  Phil?  —  Well, 
7  do!" 

Then  he  awoke,  and  with  his  arms  around  her, 
and  with  her  love  of  him  willing  now 

It  was  thus,  if  it  need  be  said,  that  Mr.  Big- 
gamore  had  seen  them. 

But  what  now?  Shall  FINIS  be  written  with  a 
curly  cue  beneath  it,  and  so  have  done?  Or  shall 
the  stray  threads  be  gathered  up,  and  the  woof  be 
woven  into  the  fuller  piece?  Enough  is  as  good  as 
a  feast,  and  it  is  the  wise  story-teller  who  knows 
when  and  where  to  stop.  But  a  word  or  two  more 
now,  and  then  you  may  clap  on  your  own  moral 
to  adorn  the  finished  tale. 

Exit  Mr.  Stanton,  in  the  first  place.  It  was  little 
Mr.  Biggamore  who  dragged  out  of  that  now  thor 
oughly  frightened  gentleman  the  admission  that  he 
had,  indeed,  married  Miss  Maria  in  the  long  ago. 
Mr.  Biggamore  gave  him  his  alternative  —  to  con 
fess  that  he  was  lawfully  married  to  her,  or,  if  the 
marriage  had  been  a  cheat,  to  repair  the  cheat  by 
making  her  now  his  legal  wife.  If  Mr.  Stanton  re 
fused,  he  had  the  choice  of  going  to  jail;  and  to 
back  up  his  threat,  Mr.  Biggamore  wagged  the 
bundle  of  papers  in  his  face.  So  Mr.  Stanton  con 
fessed.  He  had  been  lawfully  married  in  the  be 
ginning;  and  Mr.  Biggamore,  worming  out  of  him 
the  alderman's  name,  and  then  assuring  himself  that 
the  alderman  had  really  married  the  two,  gave  the 

479 


CORRIE  WHO? 

agitated  Stanwood  Geikie  twenty-four  hours  in  which 
to  get  out  of  New  York.  Is  it  necessary  to  say 
that  he  accepted  the  terms? 

But  about  Mrs.  Pinchin.  No  —  let  us  say  little 
of  the  day  when  Mrs.  Pinchin,  brought  down  from 
her  room  above,  departed  from  the  scene  of  her 
glories  and  of  her  downfall.  She  hobbled  down  the 
steps  on  Miss  Maria's  arm;  and  a  dingy  cab  drove 
off  with  them,  Mrs.  Pinchin  leaning  back  in  grim 
silence,  and  Miss  Maria,  for  the  last  time,  turning  on 
the  waterworks.  Yet  let  us  draw  a  veil  over  that; 
and  let  us  tell  only  briefly  how  Corrie  offered  a  home 
to  Miss  Maria,  which  Miss  Maria  refused.  "  No, 
my  place  is  with  Judie.  I  can't  stay  here  with  you. 
I  've  got  to  take  care  of  my  sister ;  she  needs  me 
more  than  ever  now.  Of  course,  if  you  could  take 
her  in,  too " 

So  the  two  departed.  The  big  house  in  West 
Seventy-fifth  Street  was  closed;  and  Corrie  went 
away  to  her  happiness  —  a  happiness  that  seemed 
to  be  worth  all  the  pain  it  had  cost  to  bring  it  to 
her.  And  then,  one  day,  a  year  later,  Corrie  re 
turned  home  at  nightfall. 

"  Hello,  dearest  —  oh,  just  a  moment,"  said  Phil, 
laughing ;  "  I  've  gone  and  knocked  ashes  all 
over  my  drawing.  Now  —  dare  me  again,  will 
you?" 

But  Corrie  had  turned  away  to  stare  solemnly  at 
the  floor.  "  Phil,"  she  said,  after  a  long  pause,  "  I 
took  Virgie  out  driving  with  me  to-day." 

"Yes,  sweetheart  —  and  then  what?" 
480 


THE  TABLEAU  IN  THE  DRAWING-ROOM 

"A  strap  broke  on  the  harness,  and  we  got  out 
and  walked." 

"Did  you?     And  where  did  you  walk,  Corrie?  " 

"  We  took  a  street  car  when  we  were  tired  walk 
ing  ;  and,  Phil " 

Phil  put  down  his  pipe,  and  quietly  laid  a  hand 
on  hers.  "  What  is  it,  Corrie?  " 

"  Phil,  I  saw  Mrs.  Pinchin !  " 

And  so  she  had ;  though  in  the  crowded  car 
Mrs.  Pinchin  and  Miss  Maria,  too,  had  not  seen 
her. 

They  had  got  on  with  the  crowd  at  Fourteenth 
Street,  Mrs.  Pinchin  scowling  and  grumbling  fret 
fully  at  Miss  Maria,  who  was  trying  to  help  her 
aboard. 

"  Miss  Maria  had  her  arms  full  of  bundles,"  said 
Corrie.  "  It  looked  as  if  they  had  been  out  buying 
their  dinner." 

But  when  Mrs.  Pinchin  had  lumbered  aboard,  the 
crowd  of  shoppers  had  filled  the  car,  and  there  were 
no  seats  left.  So  Mrs.  Pinchin  had  transferred  her 
scowl  from  Miss  Maria  to  a  man  sitting  near  her; 
and  the  man  burying  his  face  in  his  newspaper, 
and  affecting  not  to  see  that  she  wished  his  seat, 
Mrs.  Pinchin  had  crooked  her  cane  through  a  strap 
and  clung  on,  Miss  Maria  hanging  to  another 
strap,  and  holding  out  her  elbow  to  support  her 
sister. 

"  And  then,  Phil,  Miss  Maria  dropped  one  of  her 
bundles.  It  broke  open,  and  there  were  a  few  toma 
toes  in  it  and  one  orange.  They  rolled  around 
81  481 


CORRIE  WHO? 

under  the  people's  feet,  and  when  the  passengers 
stooped  over  to  help  Miss  Maria  pick  them  up,  I 
could  see  Mrs.  Pinchin  muttering  at  her.  Phil,  she 
was  just  as  shabby  and  threadbare  as  —  why  — 
well,  an  old  apple  woman.  So  was  Miss  Maria,  too, 
of  course;  but  Mrs.  Pinchin's  cloak  and  skirt  were 
faded  almost  green,  and  when  the  car  lurched  and 
she  put  out  a  hand  to  support  herself,  I  could  see 
her  waist.  It  was  an  old  plum-colored  brocade 
she  'd  made  me  make  over  for  her,  long  ago,  and 
now  it  was  all  worn  and  mended  so  much  I  hardly 
knew  it. 

"  But  after  they  'd  picked  up  the  things  from  the 
floor,  a  man  got  up,  and  Mrs.  Pinchin  shoved  her 
self  into  the  vacant  seat.  She  did  n't  offer  to  take 
poor  Miss  Maria's  packages,  but  sat  there  with  her 
two  hands  leaning  on  her  stick,  and  her  jaw  set  and 
frowning  straight  ahead  of  her.  Finally,  I  could  n't 
stand  it  any  longer,  so  I  told  Virgie  I  had  to  get 
out." 

"  Humh !  "  said  Phil,  reflectively. 

Corrie  dropped  her  chin  into  her  hand,  and  stared 
again  across  Phil's  drawing-table. 

"  Phil,  I  feel  as  if  I  could  n't  stand  it  any  longer, 
when  I  think  of  her." 

"Who?     Mrs.  Pinchin?" 

"  No,  Phil.  I  mean  Miss  Maria.  Don't  you  think 
I  should  give  them  the  same  allowance  my  father 
made  them?  Miss  Maria  tried  as  much  as  she  could 
to  be  kind." 

Phil's  hand  stole  out  and  laid  itself  on  Corrie's. 
482 


THE  TABLEAU  IN  THE  DRAWING-ROOM 

"  Dear,  you  must  n't  ask  me.  It 's  your  money, 
and  you  must  do  with  it  as  you  think  best.  But, 
Corrie  —  oh!  " 

Holding  her  to  him,  he  looked  down  into  her 
tearful  eyes. 

"  Dear  little  tender-hearted  girl !  "  he  whispered. 


The  University  Press,  Cambridge,  U.  S.  A. 


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